


Every Fairy Tale Needs A Villain

by charlottemuchh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Forced Relationship, Gen, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild to graphic violence, Other Characters - Freeform, Strong Language, Torture, drug references, same sex relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 32,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemuchh/pseuds/charlottemuchh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy Watson, John Watson's younger sister, turns up on the doorstep on 221B Baker Street, with a bag full of her belongings and a pile of secrets at the back of her mind. Emotionally drained, she is eventually introduced to every aspect of life at 221B...including the bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> I have no rights over these characters except Amy and minor characters, all others belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat!

Hi guys,

This is a quick explanation of my fanfiction. I started writing fanfiction this summer, before starting university. This is my first fanfiction and I’ve got a few things to point out:

-BBC TV series of Sherlock

-Post-The Great Game, but Pre-Reichenbach. I’m not sure how far along it fits, most likely between Baskerville and Reichenbach, but that’s undecided.

-I owe credit to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for the wonderful creation of Sherlock Holmes, John Hamish Watson, Mrs Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Jim Moriarty and 221B.

Credit is also owed to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss for Molly Hooper, DI Dimmock, Anderson, Donovan and for creating Harriett Watson (as opposed to Harry)

The rest is mine, and completely fictitious.

Enjoy!


	2. Knock Knock

I stood on the tube platform, my back slumped against the wall and my foot resting comfortably against the corner. It was 10:03, just past rush hour, although this didn’t stop suits jostling me on their way into the carriage. Assistants rushing back and forth with coffee and documents, on their way to meetings and one particularly flustered-looking man, standing close to the door. The dribble of sweat on his jawline and his persistent flick of his wrist indicated his journey: he was late. And judging by the amount of sweat, I remarked silently, it was his first day. Or at least not very far into his career.

My tube journey was brief. My brother’s central location meant a train into the city wouldn’t take me too far from him already. Easily in and, should I require it, easily out. I walk out of the station, stepping smartly around the young businessman and allow my eyes to adjust to the busy aesthetic before carrying on. As I enter the street, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Mum text me earlier. Where are you?

I smirk at his message and put it back quickly. Standing on the step, I absorb the number on the door as best I can, inhale heavily and ring the bell. Hearing it echo around a hallway I began to worry; maybe I got the street wrong, what if he moved without telling me? I reach into my pocket and begin to dial his number, turning away and waiting for John to answer his phone.

“Amy?” His voice travelled through the cold air to me and I whipped around, seeing his face break into a multitude of emotions as he took in the information, “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d come and see my big brother!” I took a step towards him, standing on the middle step, “What, no hug for me?”

John’s arm flew around me and pulled me in close, whilst also pulling me inside. He loosened his grip to grab my bag off the steps and began to walk up the stairs with it.

“No, I’ll do that.”  
“I’m fine, I can carry a bag.”

“John-” He dropped the bag on the first step of the stairs and turned round slowly, his head bent, “Mum told me about your shoulder.”

“Fine. You carry it. Besides, you should’ve text me, or rang! It’ll have to be the sofa, I’m afraid. How long are you staying?”

“Not sure at the moment. Stop trying to get rid of me already, I haven’t seen you since you got back from Afghanistan.” John opened the door slowly and turned back to me, “You alright?”

“Yeah. Listen, my flatmate is a little…eccentric, to say the least. I’ll explain properly when he’s out, but don’t take anything he says to heart. It’s true, but don’t let it upset you.”

“Why would I let it upset me…” My question trailed off as John lead me into the living room of his flat, where a tall, dark and slim figure stood with his back to me, staring at an array of photos and papers attached to a mirror. I stood still and placed my bag on the floor, looking around. The place was…well, it was messy. Not unclean, granted, but there were piles of papers on every surface. The smell of tea and warm toast greeted me willingly, and it was then that I realised just how long it had been since I last ate. My stomach rumbled in protest of the dismissal, but I ignored it as my brother’s flatmate began to exclaim loudly.

“John, if you’re going to have siblings stay at least let me know first. I’m right in the middle of a case!”

“How does he know you’re my-” I frowned at John slightly who began to explain.

“Well-”

“It’s rather simple-” His flatmate interjected.

“Sherlock, not now.” I frowned slightly at the first name. Sherlock? What an extraordinary name, I thought to myself.

“No, I haven’t in ages! Besides,” He cocked his head to the side, “Girl that’s twenty years old, can’t be too difficult to impress her.”

“Hey!” I spoke up, relatively insulted by his remark of my age.

“Oh no offence, just your brother is still impressed by my observations and he’s been living with me for over a year.” Holmes turned his head towards John, “You know if you don’t let me do it now it’ll be worse.”

“I know, I know.” John looked at me briefly and smiled, “Go on then. Indulge.”

“Yes, as I said, twenty years old, avid book reader. Youngest child of three, obviously, but always struggling with parental approval. Not sleeping well, hasn’t for a while, but its been exacerbated by ongoing disputes with her parents, most likely down to the ages in her lifestyle. Still maintains she’s the same girl, what with her choice of education and what I can only assume to be life aspirations, but things have changed. I know you’re still trying to prove to your parents you can be as good a child as your brother and your sister, but even getting firsts in all of your degree isn’t being enough. Well, firsts so far, I can’t predict the future.” He took a breath and turned away.

“Amazing. That really was, wow.”

“Did I get anything wrong?” He continued to talk without looking at me.

“Nope, not at all.” I quickly turned to John, “Don’t ask, I will tell you about mum and dad.”

John shrugged and picked my bag up, lugging it up the stairs to his room. Sherlock quickly turned back around and strode over to me.

“I’m Amy.”

“I know.” He inhaled slowly and looked me up and down, his eyes narrowing, “How long are you staying? Me and John have a case at the moment.”

“A case? Are you a detective or something?” John came back into the room and I turned towards him, “Case?”

“Oh! Yeah.” He smiled broadly and looked at Mr Holmes, “Yeah, Sherlock’s a consulting detective.”

“Pretty different from Afghanistan then.” I remarked quickly and returned his smile.

“Yes, yes it is.”

I felt the tension in the air, making it heavy and difficult to breathe. Stepping towards the kitchen, I noticed the various items of scientific equipment, all with the letters ‘SB’ carved into their sides. I ran my hand along the side of one, noting its particular carving must have been done with something blunt, judging by the lack fluidity between marks.

“Don’t touch those, they’re in critical stages!” Sherlock was quickly by my side, pulling the microscopes and petri dishes out of my reach. His face resembled that of a child whose toys had been pulled away from him and I stifled a laugh, turning it into a cough before stepping back towards John.

“Come on then. Spill.” I sat down in the biggest chair, the red velvet surprisingly comfortable, with the curved back enveloping me happily.

“Hmm?” John sat in the opposite chair, pulling a pile of paper from underneath him and, upon glancing at it briefly, tucked it under the chair.

“Tell me about the last year! I’ve barely heard from you, mum and dad never let me see you.”

“Well what about you? Come on, I haven’t seen you since you started university. You first.” John stretched his hands across the chair.

“I…”I lowered my head, hair falling from behind my ears and covering my face, “No. You go, I need something to cheer me up.”

“Amy?” He leant forward and spoke quietly, glancing briefly at Sherlock, “If there’s something going on, you know you can tell me, right?”

“Yes. Tell me about everything going on, okay?” I looked into John’s eyes and kept staring, refusing to give him anything. John nodded and leant back, intensively describing the past 16 months of his life with Sherlock Holmes. I was impressed; my brother had somehow managed to jump from the army to a new career that was far more interesting, but almost as dangerous. By the end of the story I was smiling from ear to ear, and looked up at Sherlock who had resumed the same position he had occupied before my arrival, “See! You’ve brightened my day already. Any chance of a cuppa?”

“Yes, yes, of course!” John bustled around in the kitchen, speaking over his shoulder to me, “So, how’s Cardiff? Guessing you’re on summer break, yeah?”

“Yeah.” John places a mug of tea in my hand and I smile. He’s remembered it, the only one who ever did: two sugars, strong and very little milk. Red tea sloshing around the edges, “Ta. Yeah. Third year in September, I’m looking forward to finishing.”

“Really? Thought you loved it there.”

“Yeah but I wanna see some of the world myself, before I start doing anything else.”

“Which is why you came to see me?”

“No. Well, yes, I guess it is, but I haven’t seen you in so long! And things are so difficult with mum and dad right now-”

“What do you mean?” John spoke sharply and I stopped abruptly.

“Promise you won’t be mad?”

“What did you do, first.”

“I did a lot of stupid things. I haven’t lost my place at uni, but I…I’ve lived, probably for the first time in a very long time!”

“Cut the crap, Amy Watson, and tell me what you did.” John looked at me sternly.

“There’s a lot of stuff. You know mum and dad were always very strict with me?”

“Vaguely, I wasn’t around for a lot of your teenage years, remember.” John’s voice softened, and I quickly launched into a brief account of the past 6 months.

“I got a tattoo. And I was out a lot drinking, with friends, but I wasn’t exactly doing anything in moderation,” I giggled nervously, “I guess mum and dad were sick of finding me in a state. Although Friday probably didn’t help things…”

“What happened on Friday?” John leant forward and took my hand, “I’m not mad.”

“I was out with friends and I had a few too many drinks. I think one was spiked. Anyway, long story short, I was woken by mum and dad the next morning with…” I trailed off, shaking my head, a few tears dropping down my face, “now I don’t know how this happened, because I have no memory of it. At all. But I must’ve been sick in the night, there was loads of it in my hair and across my face and-”

“That’s all? We’ve all done that, I’ll text mum, tell her you’re here.” John reached for his phone and I grabbed his hand with my left hand, my right one shaking feverishly as I drained my tea. It burned my throat, sticking in my chest. I bent down to place my mug on the floor.

“No! No. It’s just a little argument, that’s it. Can I go and sleep? I’m tired.” I kept my eyes on the floor, terrified of giving any clue to my brother and his absurd companion.

“Sure. My room’s the one on the left.” John pulled his hand away slowly and I stood, flicking my eyes up to his briefly. I began to walk but flinched: Mr Holmes was standing in front of me. Clearly absorbing all of the conversation, I thought, and looked up straight into his eyes. The pale blue colour flared at me, his pupils adjusting to the change in his view before narrowing.

“Excuse me.” He spoke curtly and quickly, his eyes boring into me in a haunting manner. I drop my gaze and walked off, remembering John’s last words.


	3. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, most belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat!

Hands pushed me down, forcing me further into the pillows. I thrashed around, my back arching and legs kicking out helplessly. The figures above me were blurred, their voices muffled into one another’s. As they lowered towards me the room darkened and, although their faces were just inches away from mine, I couldn’t identify a single feature. Their laughs engulfed me, swallowed me whole, echoing around me until they became part of me-

I woke up, my breathing laboured and sweat dampening the palms of my hands, the soles of my feet and the curve of my spine. Staring up at John’s ceiling, I desperately tried to control myself, slowly speaking to control my behaviour; the last thing I wanted was for John to find me like this.

“It was only a dream.” I muttered breathily, slowly feeling the tension leave my chest. But, I continued the same ritual I had whenever I had slept for the past two nights. I started by wriggling my toes, moving every muscle and every bone whilst thinking about the last book I studied. Good, every muscle, every bone was still intact, still had my mind.

For now, I thought, and chuckled.

“Amy?” John knocked at his door and began to open it slowly, his head appearing before the rest of him, “Good, you’re awake. Listen, me and Sherlock are off out, our case just got considerably more interesting. You alright on your own for a bit?”

I nodded slowly.

“Just text me if you need me for anything, and I’ll be right back, kay?” John smiled at her and half waved, leaving the door ajar as he left. His footsteps echoed away, into the rest of the flat, and were greeted with discussion.

“See, not so bad!” Mr Holmes’ was the most awake it had sounded since her arrival yesterday morning, but was met with scowls from John.

“I don’t want to leave her alone yet, Sherlock-”

“She’s a grown woman. And there’s always Mrs Hudson to keep her company. Now hurry up, or Anderson will have left before I can taunt him again!”

I frowned slightly but shook my head, forgetting what he said. Rolling onto my side, I looked at my phone and noticed there were several messages unread from the night before:

Just text us, let us know you’re safe.

Your mum told us what happened, where are you?

For god’s sake, Amy Watson, you can’t run away from your problems. Get back here this instant.

What have you done??

OMG Amy, your mum was crying in my mum’s kitchen what have you done?!

I closed my eyes slowly and deleted them all. I wasn’t going to let my gossiping friends know where I am, or my mum’s facade of tears, let alone my dad’s lack of compassion. As I went to put the phone back it buzzed again, the vibrations reverberating up my arm. I lifted it up and, upon seeing the name, began to read slowly:

Hey girl, I know it’s been a while but mum text me. You must be getting a lot of questions lately, so I won’t ask what you did or where you are. But if you need me, I’m here for you, just like John is. I know we weren’t around much, especially me, but if they’ve turned their back, then we’ll step in. I understand if you’re worried of replying, but I won’t tell them. I’ve been there kid, so keep your head up and stay safe. Harry xxx

A few tears fell from my eyes, one falling onto the screen. I wiped them off with balled up fists and put the phone down next to me. Knowing the flat was empty, I began to bawl loudly, kicking myself onto my back and slamming my feet and hands down into the duvet. My mouth open and eyes screwed shut, all my blood pooled to my face. Not content with this vocal declaration of self hate, I began to claw and pull at my face, feeling my nails scratch and pull my skin into open wounds. But, slowly, as my eyes became exhausted and my throat swollen with heavy swallowing, I rolled back over and picked my phone up. The screen still showed my sister’s message and with great difficulty, I stabbed my reply in with shaking hands.

I’m safe, I’m with John. Amy xx


	4. You See, But You Don't Observe

Four days passed quickly, most of them spent lying in John’s bed. I felt like an accident had occurred, and I was learning to do everything all over again. Even walking, after the first night of reasonable sleep seemed alien to me; wrapped in the thick duvet I could hide, even pretend my existence. But with bare feet on bare floorboards, the cold shook me viciously back into the bed. Everything became considerably easier after the first time, naturally, just like stepping out of the shower made me less wary of the doorbell. When John had come back from his case with Sherlock he’d sat with me, explaining the nature of living at 221B. Mrs Hudson, the housekeeper, was now aware of my presence in the flat, but the idea of people passing by at all hours unnerved me to my core. Now that I was clean and able to face the world, rather than hide behind my brother’s bedroom door, even the prospect of spending the rest of my summer holiday with Mr Holmes was bearable.

It’s clear, however, that I underestimated this. Whilst John and I were happy to be in each other’s company, Mr Holmes seemed frustrated that I had not, as spontaneously as I had arrived, disappeared in the night. I busied myself with cleaning and looking after my brother, to make up for any lost time between us and the years lost by war and my dysfunctional reaction to growing up. I met Mrs Hudson, my brother’s landlady during a spate of cleaning. She was, naturally surprised; even I knew Mr Holmes and John weren’t the tidiest of lodgers she must’ve had. Tea was drunk on a daily basis with Mrs Hudson and she filled me in on the gaps John had left, reminding me that things weren’t quite as rose-tinted as he made them out to be. She mentioned many names, creating a melting pot of characters, that I hastily ignored. The chances of meeting them were slim in my mind, I had no intentions of speaking to police officers or visiting any morgues. I was quick to befriend Mrs Hudson, the long hours without John began to bore me and only so much cleaning could be done around my brother and his flatmate.

On the morning of my fifth day in 221B, I was out of bed quickly and dressing in shorts and a baggy hoody. I smiled to myself as I tied my hair back: never did I think I’d get up so quickly for a day of cleaning when I’m twenty years old. I walked along the landing passed Mr Holmes’ room and the bathroom, wet patches between the two indicating my brother’s sullen friend was also awake. I was quick and light-footed on the stairs, pausing just above the floor to the sound of raised voices. Aware of its squeaky floorboard just below my left foot, I retracted and sat on the stairs, listening intently. To the right of the stairs was the final step down into the living room, and I leant towards the right to hear every word.

“-I don’t see the issue, myself!”

“You see, but you don’t”

“Observe, yes I know, you say it enough times! What’s your point?”

“There’s clearly more to this than we’re being told.”

I frowned, unsure of what they could be arguing about. Maybe the case wasn’t quite as it seemed.

“John, your judgement is clouded by her, can’t you see that?”

My heart dropped. Mr Holmes was clearly talking about me, unless John had a girlfriend he wasn’t telling me about.

“No, she’s not! Just because I believe what she tells me doesn’t mean I’m deluded by seeing my sister for the first time in years. Not everyone is like you and Mycroft.”

“Will you let me explain!” Mr Holmes’ voice hissed angrily at John and I had to strain to hear the rest of the conversation, “When you handed the tea to her, I noticed puncture marks on her arm.”

“So? You don’t know why they’re there-”

“No, you don’t want to know what they’re from. They’re too fresh and poorly done to be done by any medical official, so it’s-”

“Don’t!” John shouted, his voice echoing across the rest of the empty flat, “Don’t you dare.”

I noticed the rest of John’s talking was punctuated by gritted teeth.

“Don’t you dare accuse her of drug use. She’s got her head screwed on right, I know she wouldn’t be so reckless to fall into that group. And she would never lie to me, she’s my own flesh and blood.”

“Don’t be so sure, John. Just ask her.”

“She’s asleep-”

“On the contrary.” The entrance into John’s living room was darkened and I looked up, greeted by the intimidating presence of Mr Holmes, “She’s right here.”

He stepped closer to me, until John was stood in the doorway and I could see both faces clearly. Whilst John’s face still held the anger of the previous discussion, it was slowly softening to me, and Mr Holmes smirked openly at me.

“Go on, tell him. Tell John you’re telling the truth.”

Mr Holmes’ choice of words dropped into my chest, heavy and hot, burning its way through the trust and stability I was finding. Rising out of the ashes was bile, gathering in my mouth and inflicting me once again with the memories of my last night at home. I was becoming more aware that Holmes was right: I had lied to one of the only people I could trust. As my gag reflex stopped me swallowing, burning the final bridge between me and vomit, I turned and ran to the first place I found.

I vomited, hard and fast, gagging on the contents of my stomach as they left me faster than I could cope. Hot tears joined the menagerie and the physical memories were dragging me back to Wiltshire, back to the physical evidence I was denying and the parents I had shamed. I retched loudly as vomit and stomach acid met me with every breath I tried to take, half choked cries escaping during the entire episode. My vision was blurring rapidly from the extensive crying, but I was sure I had locked the door whilst I still had the control. As everything began to slow again, my lungs no longer racing for air, my stomach no longer forcibly ejecting its contents, I leant against the cool wall, running my hands through my hair before pulling away, horrified. The sick in them was already cooled considerably and was solidifying. Whilst I may have locked the door, John was quick to knock, tentatively and speaking quietly.

“Amy, let me in.” After a few moments of silence he knocked again, “Amy, please.”

I sat staring at the door, wishing he would leave me alone. I couldn’t tell him I’d lied, not now. He knocked once more, his hand balled into a fist.

“Please! Amy, just…just let me in!” I detected a waver in his voice as he half-shouted my name and stood up to unlock the door. He stood in the doorway, his hand balled into a fist about to knock again. It dropped to his side as he took in my appearance: the sick in my hair and around my mouth, pale skin that darkened and hollowed my eyes, and the tears that slid around the curve of my nose, dripping off my chin, “Oh Amy.”

John sat me down and rubbed my back. I smiled slightly and turned my head towards him.

“If you’re not telling me something…” John kept going quiet, stopping and starting his sentence over and over, “I mean…if there’s more to why you’re here, why you’re not at home, can you tell me? No…could you tell me? There’s no pressure, no, that’s not right…Amy, is there more to what you told me when you got here?”

“Yes.” I spoke weakly, leaning back against his hand.

“Do you want to tell me?”

“Not yet. I…I can’t, I…” I shook my head and John rubbed my back again.

“It’s fine, just fine. You tell me when you can, when you’re ready. But if you’ve killed someone, you’d better tell me now.” John joked and I smiled, tasting stomach acid against the inside of my cheeks. He stood up and it was then that I noticed Mr Holmes was stood in the doorway. John stood next to him and glared, his voice quiet. I turned back to the sink.

“Amy…” I turned to look at John

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have heard any of that. Maybe you should go back to bed.” Even though my brother was talking to me, his body turned to me, his eyes never left Mr Holmes, until he stalked off. John shook his head slightly, snapping his vision back to me.

“Yeah, I think I will. I’m gonna have a shower.”

After rinsing my hair through repeatedly, I retired to John’s bed again, desperate to sleep off my re-discovered guilt for shattering the glass walls John and Harry had created during their childhood years at home.


	5. New Faces

Once again, I woke with sweat dampening my fringe and threw myself back into my morning routine. But before I could flex my thigh muscles and twist my hip bones, there was a knock at the door. I pulled the duvet up and around my neck and sat up, waiting for the knocker to enter.

“John told me you weren’t feeling too well.” Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway with a mug of tea in her hand, smiling at me fondly, “It’s best I brought this to you anyway, Lestrade’s downstairs.”

“Lestrade?” The name was familiar, but it was in the melting pot from our previous discussions. I sat up and took the mug gratefully from her hand, clasping both of mine around it.

“Yes, DI Lestrade. Sounds like there’s been a murder, right up Sherlock’s street that will be. You’re best out of the way at first, can’t ever be sure how Sherlock will take to your intrusion.”

I smirked, knowing that was only too true. There was a roar of anger from down the stairs and a loud thud, causing Mrs Hudson to whip round.

“Boys!” She shouted loudly, her voice squeaking slightly, “If you’ve done something to my wall again…”

She trailed off and, after smiling her apologies at me, made her way as fast as she could down the stairs. As soon as she left I jumped out of bed, changing quickly into shorts and a t-shirt before brushing my hair. A quick glance in the mirror left me deciding to tie my hair up, something which I did as I walked down the stairs, my feet slipping off the last step onto cold wood suddenly. Phone in one hand, I took a deep breath and strode in:

“We doing anything today John?” I looked up and saw my brother smiling up at me from his seat next to a grey haired man, “You can show me around London if you like.”

“No can do, Amy.” He stood up, “Oh, you don’t know these guys. This is DI Lestrade, and that’s DI Dimmock over there.”

John first pointed at the grey-haired man next to him who barely registered my presence and then to the younger police officer in the kitchen. I hadn’t even noticed him until John pointed to him, but it was clear he noticed me. His back straightened and he cleared his throat as I turned around, my eyes flicking across him. Relatively young for the job, late twenties roughly. He’s nervous, Mr Holmes has always made him nervous, and I’m probably not helping, although marginally compared to Mr Holmes, as I’m younger than him and he can assert some authority over three of the people in the room, I thought.

“You can call me Andrew.” He extended his hand towards me and I took it briefly, before continuing over to the kettle.

“Well, when are you gonna take me out, hmm?” I filled the kettle and flicked its switch quickly, turning around to shift my weight onto one side and put my hand on my hip, “I’m messing Johnny, although…”

“What?” John was grinning at me, his eyebrows marginally raised as his eyes washed over Andrew Dimmock.

“Nah, you probably can’t.”

“Tell me, Amy. I feel bad enough for leaving you here all day for days.”

“Can I know what’s going on? What’s the case? You never know, my literary expertise may come in handy one day!” I leant against the kitchen side opposite to Andrew Dimmock and smiled back at my brother.

“Haha, not sure. But yeah sure, the case! Murder, possibly linked to two-”

“Possibly? Of course its linked John!” Mr Holmes snapped, “Amy, you have two decisions. Have your brother tell you, as sentimental as that may be, or me, the description that won’t have any possibles in it, just definites. Don’t worry, John won’t be hurt when you ask for me.”

“What makes you think I’ll pick you?” I spluttered.

“I don’t think, I know. You’re an intelligent girl, and I’ve noticed something about you.”

“Oh? What’s that then?”

“Lock, Amy, lets discuss this later.” John interjected and turned to DI Lestrade, “We’ll be down at Scotland Yard within the hour, bye Greg.”

DI Lestrade left and, after a polite goodbye and tentative wave to me, Andrew Dimmock followed suit.

“Now, Sherlock, play nice.” John turned to me, “It’s fine, he’s already told me. It’s rare that he’s wrong, but if he’s right then this is good, isn’t it Sherlock?”

“Yes. Tell us what you noticed about DI Dimmock when you walked in.”

“He’s nervous, but that doesn’t come from the job. No, he’s learnt to demand respect, but that comes from early promotion, he is rather young for a DI. Although, he was a little more nervous because I was there, not sure why, but there was a small amount of sweat around the curve of his nostrils, his upper lip. It’s obviously me and not the manner of the case, because his posture improved and he was quick to establish a casual relationship with me.” I looked at John and frowned at his wide and bold grin, “What? What did I do?”

“You gave the Watson gene pool some credit. John can’t think that way, he sees but he doesn’t observe, and I can’t pass judgement on Harry but I shouldn’t think she can. Although I did notice a lot more than you, naturally, that was relatively impressive.”

“Relatively? Sherlock, she’s like you!”

“I say relatively because in comparison to what you muster up, John, it’s incredible. But in comparison to me it’s not.” Mr Holmes looked up at us both, “Oh you know what I mean! But, the case. Murder, third of its kind by the same murderer-”

“How do you know, you haven’t been down?” I interrupted him, intrigued by how he’d know.

“Lestrade told me, done at the same time, found at the same time by their significant others. But he wants me to come down now to look around-”

“Why now?” I interrupted again and clearly saw him flinch, “Why not before?”

“Excellent question! Because the others were men, similar careers, but the third, is a woman. And not only that, whilst the men worked in finance, she worked in media.”

“Sherlock.” John spoke quietly, interrupting his enthusiasm, “We should get going, Lestrade’s expecting us.”

“Yes alright, fine.” Mr Holmes followed my brother and called over his shoulder, “Things are looking up for you, Amy Watson.”


	6. Detective Inspector

The front door to 221B slammed and Amy sighed, turning the page of her book slowly. She looked out of the corner of her eye to check her brother was back in one piece, before sliding further into his chair. Mr Holmes was stood just behind him, his face tense and lips sucked in over his teeth and his eyes closing slowly as the third member of their party walked in, already talking.

“No, Mr Holmes, you certainly can’t question Mrs Sharpe’s husband!” I raised my eyebrows briefly as I recognised the voice as DI Dimmock’s.

“And why not? It’s not like he killed his wife.” Mr Holmes threw himself into his own chair and stared at me. I looked up from my book and slowly put my finger to my mouth.

“How do you know?” Dimmock spluttered.

“Because Mr Sharpe, from what Greg told us, has a very strong alibi. Right, Sherlock?” John spoke quietly, particularly in contrast to Mr Holmes’ abrasive tones.

“Yes, of course John.” He turned his head back to me and looked at me briefly before starting his sentence slowly, “Amy! I didn’t see you there!”

I narrowed my eyes at him before smiling up at John and hopping out of his chair.

“Oh don’t move on my account!”

Always the gentleman, I thought to myself.

“No, it’s fine. I’m making tea anyway. Would you like some, DI Dimmock?”

“Ooh yes please. Don’t get chance to stop for a cuppa too often on the job!” He followed me halfway into the kitchen and leant against the work surface, “But please, call me Andrew. Everyone does, don’t they John?”

“Of course!” John spoke without turning round.

“I don’t.” Mr Holmes was quick to speak, “I didn’t even know that was your name.”

“Yes well,” John stood up to get his laptop off the table, “you didn’t know Lestrade’s name until a few months ago.”

I stared at John and Holmes, acting like an old couple and quickly snapped my head back to Andrew.

“Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea would be lovely. Two sugars too.” I nodded at him and began to scoop sugar into two of the three mugs and into a cup. Mrs Hudson was quick to point out Mr Holmes’ preferences when it came to food and drink, and I was significantly grateful to her. The first mug of tea I made for him was promptly thrown against the wall and he strode into the kitchen to boil fresh water for a cup.

“Good choice. I have two sugars too.” I smiled up at him and handed his, stirring mine and looking up at the clock. Three minutes until mine would be ready. I picked up the cup and the final mug and placed them next to both my brother and his flatmate.

“So what brings you to London? John said you weren’t from around here.”

“It’s my summer break, going back to Cardiff in a couple of months.”

“Oh cool, what are you studying?”

“English Literature. It’ll be my final year, looking forward to it to be honest.”

“That’s amazing.” Andrew leant forward slightly.

“Detective Inspector,” Holmes cleared his throat, “surely there are crimes to be solved? Leave us in peace!”

“Sherlock!” John growled at him.

“What? He’s talking, it’s putting me off!”

“I’d better be going. Thank you for the tea, Amy,” He put the mug down slowly and brushed his hand against mine.

“No worries. Goodbye now.” I smiled politely and quick drained my tea before slamming it down, “John!”

“What?” He grumbled.

“Really,” I stepped in front of him, “are we setting me up with your colleagues now?”

“No, but…” John paused, “I thought it’d be nice for you. Don’t you like him?”

“He’s friendly but, I don’t know him. Not like anything would happen, he’s here and I’m in Cardiff most the time.”

“When you’re not cluttering my thinking space.” Sherlock added onto my sentence and smiled sourly.

“Amy, as he’s going to be a while thinking and needing his,” John paused again, shifting his brain from side to side for the right word, “space, why don’t we go and see if Lestrade has anymore information we might need?”

“Yeah, ok.” I dropped my voice, “Anything to get me away from him.”

Whilst John chuckled, his flatmate coughed.

“I can still hear you!”


	7. Unfamiliar Faces

Today marked my first week at 221B Baker Street. Five weeks left, I thought to myself, as I went downstairs to spend another day tiptoeing around Mr Holmes’ mood swings. Today was going to be like no other, as John rolled his eyes as I walked in, directing it towards Sherlock Holmes. I smiled and stood in the kitchen, busying myself with the kettle. Last night, with their case ending thirty six hours after it had started, John had got a takeaway in and we finally discussed spending the next day together. Mr Holmes had eaten most of the plate in front of him, after barely eating for the case, whilst we sat at the table discussing everything from the London Eye to Trafalgar Square.

“Looking forward to finally seeing London?” John folded away his newspaper and stood up, tidying away various papers around his laptop.

“Yeah! It’ll be great to actually look around. Are you coming with us?” I looked at Sherlock Holmes and smiled, praying he’d refuse.

“No, there are matters I need to attend to.” He didn’t even look up from the laptop balanced on his knees.

Even though I’d seen the sights of London a few times with my parents and on school trips, there was something refreshing about John leading me through the city he called home. Taking the tube and talking through gaps between other people became normality for the day, and John took me across a lot of London. Buckingham Palace was notable, as the presence of the Royal Standard pulled my brother’s back upwards, his posture improving rapidly. I smirked and kept it to myself, it had been a while since I had seen him like this. I begged him to take me to Covent Garden, the home of little boutiques and cafes. He smiled and, begrudingly, change our direction of travel to Covent Garden. Seeing the lack of interest on my brother’s face, and, upon the realisation that my student loan wouldn’t cover half of the dresses I was looking at, asked him where he wanted to go next. On the tube towards Trafalgar Square he told me about the time they found themselves against Chinese smugglers, and how he’d been given an ASBO. I laughed heartily at his story, it was relieving to hear him laugh this kind of stuff off, and it reminded me just how much time we had had apart. John had told me how him and Mr Holmes rarely used the tube, and relied on taxis to take them everywhere. I could never really see the appeal of that, every tube journey I had taken had told me stories. From my brief journey to see if John would let me in and the nervous new worker next to me, to the young couple on our tube journey home that afternoon. They were stood in the middle of several seats, their legs tangled together rather than tangled between the knees of the strangers sitting around them. Her eyes are never leaving his, his hands are balanced subtly on her neck and waist as they talk and laugh about their day.

“Reminds me of brief encounter.” I muttered to John, dropping my eyes and turning to my brother.

“Hmm?” He didn’t look up from the copy of The London Evening Standard in his hands.

“Johnny!” I placed my hand across the page and his eyes snapped up to mine.

“Yeah?” He folded it away and grinned.  
“Look at them.” I lowered my voice and turned so I was side by side with my brother, pointing subtly, “Do you know the statue at St Pancras station? The couple?”

“Yep.”

“Are you understand my reference?” I laughed, poking his shoulder.

“Oh yes! Yes, of course!” John smiled, his eyes barely leaving the couple.

“Come on, we can walk the last few streets to Baker Street.” I turned towards the door and, before stepping off the tube, looked behind me, “John!”

He darted off the tube, both of us laughing and our feet aching. As we turned into Baker Street, I stopped.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Promise me we can have another day like this? Before I go back I mean.”

“Of course we can! The only reason we hadn’t yet was because of…well,” He gestured towards 221B. I smiled and hugged my brother, before a voice interrupted us.

“Ah, John! Just the one I was looking for!” I looked up and saw a gentleman, dressed in a suit that clung a little too tight to his stomach.

“Alright Mike?” John smiled and quickly turned back to me, “This is my sister, Amy.”

“Hi.” I spoke nervously. He must’ve known John when he was in the army, or at St Barthes, I thought.

“Pleasure to meet you. I was at St Barthes with your brother, before he went and got himself shot!” He laughed heartily, “Can I have a word John?”

“Sure.” John threw me his keys, “Go on in. Sherlock’ll be in, but he should be in a good mood. If not-”

“Mrs Hudson is downstairs.” I grinned and walked in, taking the stairs two at a time to 221B. When I opened the door, I discovered Mr Holmes wasn’t alone.

“-Well, we’re clearly getting too bored these days!” The man with Sherlock Holmes was sat in my brother’s chair, drinking tea from a cup identical to Mr Holmes’. He was smartly dressed, in a cream coloured suit with well polished shoes and even a clip on his tie. His hair was greased back, his eyes made larger by the styling. He turned his head to me and flashed a smile. Unlike any other smile I’d been given at 221B, it turned me cold and concerned me, “Come on Sherlock! Not going to introduce us?”

He stood up and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, watching him walk over to me. I stood rigid to the ground, my eyes on the feet of the chair he had just left. He stood right next to me and as he spoke, his breath left my neck hot.

“I’m Jim Moriarty.”


	8. Who's Jim Moriarty?

“Yes.” Moriarty stopped by the door and turned around briefly.

“Nice to finally meet you, Amy.” He turned and walked out of 221B.

“How, how does he know my name?” I stuttered slightly.

“I’ll leave this one for your brother to answer.” Sherlock spoke softly as John walked in.

“What’s up?” Upon seeing my face, John frowned, “Amy?”

“John?” I looked up at him, holding his gaze, “Who’s Jim Moriarty?”

John broke my gaze and looked straight at Sherlock, walking past me to stand within inches of his flatmate.

“What did I say? What did I-” John’s voice broke, his hand raised with anger before he looked at Mr Holmes again, “Sherlock, please-”

“I didn’t know he would be here. Or that you’d be back now.”

“You said-”

“I know what I said, John!” He barked at my brother before walking off, heading straight upstairs.

“John?” I spoke quietly. John sighed and held his head in his hands before walking back out of 221B.

“Is someone, anyone, going to tell me what’s going on?!” I raised my voice so Mr Holmes and John could hear me on the different staircases.

“Jim Moriarty is a genius-” Mr Holmes began to explain, backtracking.

“An evil bastard is a more appropriate definition!” John muttered under his breath, sitting down in his chair.

“John. We’ve had quite a run-in or two, he can’t help himself but show off these days, now that I know of his existence. Rather boring really, although he does keep us on our toes, right John?”

“You could say that.” John spoke through gritted teeth.

“Right. So how does he know my name?”

“Because the man’s a genius!” Holmes bellowed and raised his hand towards John to silence him, “No! He calls himself the consulting criminal, rather fitting enemy for the consulting detective if you ask me. So he knows your name because he’s made it his job to bring me down. And how will he bring me down? By watching this building, by learning every little aspect of my life, of John’s life. So yes, I guess even his little sister counts in that. For the love of god don’t ask why he knows it. He knows because he wants to, and if he wants it, he’ll have it.”

He turned around and walked back up the steps.

“Ok.” I sat down opposite John, trying to take it all in, “So this is why your job’s so dangerous, cos of people like him?”

“Because of him, really.” John leant forward, “But don’t worry, we won’t let him hurt you.”

“What if he turns up again?”

“Right, well, this is when I have to give you a couple of numbers.” John pulled his phone from his pocket, “I need you to text anything that isn’t a whole message to these numbers. They’re well aware that a single word text or a number means trouble, I’ll let Greg and Mycroft know your number-”

“Mycroft?”

“Yeah, Sherlock’s brother. Don’t ask, it’s pretty dysfunctional.” He read the numbers to me and smiled, “But it won’t come to this, this is just what we do to keep each other safe. And now we do it to keep you safe as well. It’ll be just fine, you’ll see. Now, I think it’s time for bed, Amy.”

I looked at John again, my brows knitting together with worry.

“I know you didn’t come here for this, but it’s better to be safe rather than sorry. Consider this the downside to visiting Baker Street.”

“I thought that was your flatmate?” I smiled slightly as he tried to reassure me.

“Someone’s feeling better! Nah, Lock’s brilliant when you get used to his little…attributes. Not that you will, he keeps me on my toes and it’s been a year.” John stood and looked down at me, holding me close to him, “I swear nothing will happen to you. And if Moriarty touches one hair on your head, I may have to kill him.”

A few days after Jim Moriarty’s visit to 221B, John and Sherlock were called away by Lestrade for an intriguing case. Left alone for several hours, the sound of the door opening and three sets of feet on the stairs didn’t reassure me as much as two would have: clearly Lestrade had come back with them. I was quick to fling the door open, but the smile on my face quickly disappeared.

“Honey I’m home!” Moriarty drawled the words through a devilish smile, stepping into the flat and turning around simultaneously, “Oh. He’s not here.”

He stepped towards me and I tried to step away, held in place by the two that had followed him. He spoke directly into my ear, his lips brushing against my lobe.

“Well, looks like someone else will have to entertain us.” He looked at me directly and smirked, his exhalation leaving hot vapour on my cheek.

“Don’t look at me.”

“Good, I like her! Got a bit of Watson spirit in her.” He turned to the other men, who tightened their grip on my arms, “And from what I gathered earlier, both of them will miss you.”

“Miss me-” Before I could finish my sentence, my mouth and nose were covered with a damp cloth. I began to scream, the noises muffled and thrusted away from the men, kicking as much as I could.

“Feisty, I’m liking her already!”

Barely awake, I felt the two men lift me slightly from the ground and Moriarty lead the way down the stairs, my feet dragging down every individual step. When the front door opened, and the light flooded towards us, it drowned my mind and plunged me into darkness, my unconsciousness taking full effect.


	9. Discoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point on, the narrative splits in three directions, alternating between John, Amy and Sherlock. I'll indicate this at all points though!

John's Point of View:  
“But Sherlock, you’ve gotta eat! Come on, we sorted the case.” I grumbled as we approached 221B, my stubborn flatmate dragging his heels at every suggestion. The case was open and shut, a mild disappointment for Sherlock that resulted in a few sharply exchanged words between himself and Greg. God I hate it when he does that, leaves me right in the middle of it!

“That case, yes…” Sherlock stopped at the door.

“What do you mean? Sherlock?” I pushed tentatively at his side to get through: he’d probably forgotten his key.

“We’ve got a new one, it would seem.”

“What case!” I pushed him to one side and saw the door already open, the wood around the lock splintered and bare. A large scuff mark along the bottom of the door indicated heavy boots had scraped against it, and it sat ajar, “Oh my…”

Lock was straight through to Mrs Hudson’s, fearing again for her. About to shout for him I stopped myself, remembering just a few months ago and the abrasive American that ended up on top of our bins. I smirked slightly before leaning on the bannisters, watching for signs that Mrs Hudson was okay. As he banged progressively louder on her door, I flinched.

“Careful!” We both spun around: Mrs Hudson was stood by the front door, “I know I haven’t cleaned yet, but I thought you wouldn’t notice-”

“Oh. Well never mind. Right, ok.” He flew up the stairs and stood in the doorway, “Erm, John?”

I smiled at Mrs Hudson as she rolled her eyes at Sherlock’s typical behaviour, before slowly replying, “Yeah?”

“You might want to come up.” Remembering the smashed door, I ran up the stairs. There wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary that greeted me, which sent alarm bells ringing: where was Amy?

“Amy?” I started to shout.

“He’s got her, John.” My stomach sank as if filled with lead.

“Oh no, no, no, he can’t, no-”I ran up the stairs and back down, seeing our entire flat empty.

“John.” He picked up a handkerchief off the floor with a pair of tweezers from the kitchen. Embroidered into the corner was JM. As I slumped into my chair, head in my hands and breathing heavily, he pulled his phone from his pocket, “Lestrade, it’s me. We’ve had a break in and a kidnapping. Can you come? Please don’t bring Sally.”

He sat opposite me on the edge of the chair.

“Oh god, what have I done?” Hot tears poured down my face as I connected the dots and memories. The pool. Explosives. His hands on Sherlock. Amy. Amy. Amy.

“You told her the drill?” Sherlock snapped when I didn’t respond, “John. Yes? Right, well, then she knows we’ll kill him. Or damn well try.”

I lifted my head.

“Really?”

“Yes.” I smiled slightly at his response. Only Moriarty could bring out a caring element to Sherlock, even if he didn’t realise he seemed that way, “I know Lestrade can’t help too much, but all hands on deck. I’ll phone Mycroft now.”

Sherlock stepped out and my head fell back into my hands. As my eyes closed tears were forced out onto my cheeks, and my mind processed more along with the thought of Moriarty. The damaged, vulnerable girl that vomited over the thought of betraying me had now been betrayed by me, the brother she had always looked up to, the brother that left her alone and cut her off when their parents turned his back on him. The sound of police cars swirled around my ears and I stifled a sob as I connected to sound to Amy.

“And she’s John’s sister? Right, John?” Lestrade’s voice boomed into the flat, breaking the microscopic membrane between my racing thoughts and reality. Merging them, creating them as visuals in my mind. Lestrade’s direct address to me prompted my eyes towards him, but I saw Moriarty’s eyes instead of his, her lipstick around his lips, his fists marked with her blood. Mine clenched and I pushed them into my own eyes, my brain tricking me, turning against me, “John?”

I took a deep breath and kept my eyes on the floor, counting the knots on the wooden boards.

“Amy’s never met Moriarty before properly to my knowledge. She’s twenty years old, tall, blonde hair and erm, oh God, what did she wear? Erm, shorts I think, and probably a hoodie. Yeah, she wears her university one a lot. Must’ve happened about three hours ago at the earliest, we left around then. Check with Mrs Hudson though, she’ll be more accurate than me, I don’t know. Erm, she, she, she, she-” I stuttered and bit my hand, forcing myself to stop rather than accept that I simply don’t know where she is. Lestrade put his hand on my shoulder and I took a deep breath.

“It’s ok, that’s a lot of help honest. Obviously you and Sherlock will want to investigate, so consider this a dual search for her-”

“Mycroft rang me back. Said he’s on his way, but he’s put orders in for surveillance, intelligence and a standby plane should we need it.” Sherlock cut across Lestrade.

“Right. Well, we’ll get out of your way then.” He squeezed my shoulder and walked towards the door, “We’ll find her, don’t worry John.”

*

Amy's Point of View:  
My eyes slowed opened, my eyelashes sticking together with wet sleep from a long period of unconsciousness. I tried to stretch and instead found my wrists chafing against metal. Handcuffs. I rolled onto my other side, desperately trying to stay calm whilst also figuring out my location. A high-up window, covered with a rusted metal grate, stopped me looking out and even seeing the full length of the room. Trying to stand my whole body began to burn with effusive pain, throwing me onto my back in a sweat and crying out.

“You’d better shut your mouth, he doesn’t like being disturbed.” A voice from the darkness boomed across to me, “And you’ve only seen him in good moods.”

I began to bite my lip, holding in the cries as tears fell hot and fast into the sweat gathering across my chest and on my upper lip. Instead, I focused my thoughts on John. Find me please, I implored the John that appeared in my mind, and hoped he would find me soon. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.


	10. Dear Brother

Sherlock's Point of View:  
“Yes well, if you’d just let me finish Mycroft!” I hissed angrily across the back of the car, still staring out of the window as central London slowly dragged away from us in the rush hour traffic.

“I’m just surprised that you called for my help straight away, dear brother.” I could hear the smirk in his voice.

“If it was about me then you would never get the call, you know that. Call yourself intelligent…”

“Alright Sherlock! What’s this all about? I can’t drop everything for you just because you’ve upset someone.”

“I haven’t done anything. It’s John. Well, John’s sister-”

“Spit it out!” Mycroft sighed and leant forward. I watched out of the corner of my eye and smirked as I noticed his jacket buttons stretched to capacity, “Stop the car, Mr Holmes the younger will be leaving.”

The driver pulled over almost simultaneously with his words and he opened the door, waiting anxiously. I swung my legs out of the car and leant back, turning my head towards my impatient brother at the last moment.

“Moriarty took John’s sister.”

I stepped out and left the car, walking faster than usually. After hearing another car door open and slam shut within seconds, I heard the heavy, heel-based footsteps of my darling brother. I stopped and twisted on my heels, leaning back with one hand in my pocket, the other twisting my collar up, “I see we’re interested?”

“I’ll get everything sorted, like I said we would for this kind of moment. Now get back in the car and we’ll go to Baker Street.”

“I don’t need looking after-”

“Funnily enough you do!” He pushed me into the wall of a bank, a suited passer-by looking over his shoulder briefly, “You and John need someone to keep you level-headed.”

“John does that.” I slapped his hands away and adjusted my collar again, my lip curling up slightly.

“Let’s just go and see how level-headed he is, shall we?” He smirked and put his hand on my shoulder, forcibly guiding me.

“Get off. I guess I could save the taxi fare.” I stormed into the car and folded my arms, waiting impatiently for the house that I, a war-torn, middle aged doctor and a divorced, flirtatious, yet caring, woman called home.

*

John's Point of View:  
The door banged open downstairs and I threw myself from my chair to the doorway, stopping when I saw Sherlock’s company was not the girl I saw grew up. I slunk back to my chair and drained my glass of rum, picking up the bottle of Morgan’s Spiced and taking another triple measure. My doctor instinct was still inside, still functioning as I keep an automatic running total of my alcohol units. Double figures had been reached long ago and I held the glass in both hands.

“John.” Mycroft sat opposite me, leaning back, “We will get her back. I’ve had a team on Moriarty for a while now, and that information is currently making its way across to both of your laptops, as well as in printed form. Sherlock, have you got a board? For information.”

The sound of feet walking away and returning, dragging what could only be the whiteboard Mrs Hudson had bought as a hint for the wellbeing of her wallpaper, bounced into my ears. I kept my eyes strictly on the floor.

“Now.” Mycroft stood and Sherlock slipped straight into his seat, glaring up at his brother. Glad to see somethings hadn’t changed, I smirked, “He’s got family from Scotland, from Ireland, contacts that stretch across the world. We’re mainly looking Central Africa, Eastern Europe and China. What about Amy, can we connect her to any of these, any places that you can connect to her at all?”

I looked up slowly, holding the glass so tight my fingers stretched across the reflection, the blood cutting off.

“Bristol. It’s her university. Irish friends, been to Africa but it was Kenya. Central Europe yes, but not Eastern Europe. No Asian connections. We’re from Wiltshire.” With every answer I drank, supping audibly. I turned towards Sherlock and saw his eyes were fixed on me, “What? Oh I’m sorry, am I not managing this as well as the Holmes boys want me to? Sorry for having some fucking emotions.”

“John-”

“Fuck you! She’s my baby sister, my flesh and blood!”

“John, your drink-”

“Did you want one, Mycroft? Where are my manners! If I want a drink in my own damn house then I will do. And no one is going to stop me.” I saw Sherlock was still staring, “Fuck you. This never would have happened if it wasn’t for you!”

Sherlock stood and looked down at me, blinked slowly and went upstairs, his bedroom door slamming.

“Yes, because drinking like that is going to help John.” Mycroft snapped, “Now you listen to me.”

“Mycroft-”

“You will listen to me!” He bellowed, “I know what it feels like to lose a sibling, think you’ve lost them. But can you kindly remember, that I almost lost mine to addiction. So when you’re going off the rails, can you not shove it in his face?”

“Oh fuck.” My head slumped into my hands.

“He’ll understand, John. We all do. Get some sleep, we’ll start the hunt tomorrow.” He left without letting his eyes run across my face. The second the door closed I began to walk up the stairs, stopping outside of Sherlock’s door. I knocked softly.

“Lock? Please, I’m sorry, I forgot-” The door opened.

“Come here.” The long and scrawny, yet strong, arms of my flatmate pulled me close to him, enveloping me in the smell of disinfectant and pears, “It’s okay, John.”

“I’ve killed her, I sent her to her death letting her stay.” I cried hysterically into his arms and felt him walk us slowly towards his bed.

“Don’t be stupid John, I’m not giving you sympathy like that.” He sat us down, “Come on, sleep here tonight.”

“I thought you weren’t…” I swallowed my tears, the lump in my throat, the gulps and the rising phlegm.

“I’m not. You need comforting.” He pulled back his sheet and gently laid me down, walking around to the other side to try and lie his arm across me, “Erm, John?”

“Oh Christ, Lock.” I laughed slightly and rolled over, putting his hand on my back close to my shoulder blade, “There. Now Mrs Hudson won’t suspect a thing.”

He laughed considerably more, the boom radiating from his chest.

“Get some sleep, John.”


	11. Promises

I woke up on the cold concrete floor, my hands digging into my back. Rolling onto my side and opening my eyes I noticed some light, bright and obtrusive against my retinas that had accustomed to the darkness. As they adjusted, a pair of shoes came into focus. Black, well polished and shined. A pair of lightly coloured trousers sat above them, folding rigidly across the shoe.

“Nice of you to join us.” His Irish accent dragged the last two words together, “Sleep well?”

I stayed silent, my eyes on his shoes.

“I was talking to you!” His left foot lunged out into my stomach repeatedly, the incremental force making bile rise further up my gullet. One final kick from his right foot directly into my head sent me onto my back, coughing as a small amount of vomit dribble from my mouth, laced with blood, “There, glad I got your attention finally.”

He slid his feet back slowly and bent down to them.

“Ah, will have to polish these again! Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here.” I stayed silent and he sighed, “For God’s sake. Lift her into that chair, I want her full attention.”

A pair of calloused and large hands grabbed my shoulders, dragging me by the rope tying my hands together towards the chair furthest from the window.

“I won’t try again. Are you wondering why you’re here then, Miss Watson?” At a higher level, I could see his face as clearly as in 221B. If he hadn’t kidnapped me I’d look at his face marked gently with laughter lines, the big brown eyes and clearly defined bone structure and see an attraction.

“No.” I looked defiantly at him.

“Well, it has something to do with your surname. Yes, that lovely name that, along with a few habitual traits and a string of DNA, oh and your blood type, you share with your darling brother. John Hamish Watson. Amy Watson. Did your parents get lazy with you, you’re the only one without a middle name, oh I don’t need to ask,” He leant forward and whispered into my ear, “I know they gave up on you.”

“Don’t you dare-” His hand flew across my cheek.

“As I was saying before I was interrupted,” He glared at me, “yes, it’s all to do with your brother. Your lovely brother and his flatmate. But that’s enough for now, I’ll be back later.”

He stepped back.

“Don’t you dare lay a finger on him!” I spoke bitterly, spitting the last dreg of vomit out of my mouth.

“Oh, I won’t. We won’t, we promise.” He nodded to the man stood behind him and, as he began to walk up the stairs, the larger of the duo began to walk towards me.

The first punch ricocheted off my nose onto my cheekbone, splitting the skin in both areas. With every hit came more pain, blood pouring from my nose. I screamed and screamed, screamed until my throat became raw. He walked off slowly and once hearing the door close, I began to sob. Trying to numb the pain across my face I pushed my hands against the back of the chair, remembering how John used to pinch me gently after falling off my bike as a distraction. I cried harder, remembering just how much I need him, even now.


	12. Rapunzel

John's Point of View:  
“John.” I woke slowly, feeling Sherlock’s hand brush against my shoulder gently, “Come on, we need to get up for Mycroft.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Yes you can.” He rolled me gently onto my other side and bent his head to catch my eyes in his, “Do it for Amy. And for me. I know you can do this John, show Moriarty that the soldier in you didn’t leave when he wrapped you in semtex-”

“Yes alright Sherlock, don’t bring that up right now.” I snapped slightly.

“But you know that I’m right, surely?”

“You say it yourself, you’re always right.” Sherlock stifled a laugh.

“Yes but just listen John. Moriarty feeds on breaking people down, he’d do anything to prove that even I can be broken-”

“Sherlock, this isn’t about you-”

“No, it isn’t. Its about you. And right now, your sister’s…well, we don’t where she is. So get up, get cracking with Mycroft and we will prove to Moriarty that it’ll take a damn sight more than kidnapping your sister to bring us down-”

“This isn’t about you Sherlock!” I raised my hands towards his face.

“I know, but…I need you.”

“What?” I dropped my right hand, lowering my left slowly to brush against his face.

“I-I-I…fuck, forget it.” Sherlock threw himself out of the bed and walked towards the door, “Mrs Hudson’s downstairs, she’s making a cooked breakfast. If you won’t get up for me and Mycroft, you can get up for her.”

*

Amy's Point of View:  
Every cut made me shiver and sob. The sound of every strand slicing away from me cut through my eardrum. The heavy duty scissors were bashed across the back of my head whenever I was too loud.

“If you’re not quiet,” His voice jumped from where he stood watching, the same smile still on his face, “we’ll use those scissors elsewhere, not just on hair. And I’ll give you something to scream about too.”

Their laughs echoed.

*

John's Point of View:  
Mycroft was quick to establish his role in our search. After my performance the previous night I had proved that me and Sherlock needed someone to make sure we stayed level. He came in and swung his briefcase onto the desk, swiftly taking a cup of tea from Mrs Hudson with a smile.

“I’ve made the boys some breakfast, did you-”

“No thank you, Mrs Hudson, I’m on a diet.”

“Not a very successful one by the looks of things.” Sherlock’s voice appeared from behind the newspaper he read. Mrs Hudson frowned in his direction and excused herself.

“Are you doing anything helpful, Sherlock?” Mycroft strode to his case and unlocked it quickly, scattering some papers onto the floor. I scooped them up, desperate to help in some way, “Thanks John- oh, what’s that?”

He pointed to a book sticking out of the pile in my arms and slowly pulled it away. The red and black cover was alien to me: The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter. It didn’t belong to me, probably not to Sherlock. Sherlock leant over my shoulder.

“That’s Amy’s book.”

“How do you-”

“Oh John, I bet even Greg remembers this book. Better yet, I know DI Dimmock will. The Bloody Chamber, she’s been reading it here.” He took it out of Mycroft’s hand, “Not for the first time either. Battered, she must read it a lot. And it’s for university too, must be important.”

“Sherlock, if you’re lying-” Mycroft’s voice was laced with annoyance.

“Her name.” He looked up, spitting the words towards his brother, “she’s written her name in pencil. Pencil because she doesn’t want to mark it forever, but doesn’t want someone to think it belongs to them. Books are important to her.”

He flicked through it, the pages scattering from one hand to the other. A slip of paper fell out.

“Very important. In fact, they’re completely clean, not a single mark.” He picked up the slip, “Looks like I’m not the only that knows how important they are to her.”

“How do you mean?” I had become bored of Sherlock showing off how much he knew about Amy just because he observes.

“We’ve seen this handwriting before, haven’t we John?” He turned it around to show me and my stomach dropped. The blue ink, written neatly with curves on the end of every ‘l’ dragged me back to the start of that case. The envelope. The murders. The semtex. Sherlock. Amy. Sherlock. Amy. Sherlock read it out loud, “Every fairytale needs a villain.”

“Christ…” Mycroft began.

“What the fuck-” I ran my hands through my hair as Mrs Hudson walked in.

“Sorry to disturb, there’s been a package delivered.”

“I’ll take that.” Sherlock reached out, not even looking up.

“It’s not for you, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson smiled slightly at me, her hand extending towards me, “There you go John.”

“Thanks.” I glanced at it briefly before dropping it onto the table. I turned back towards to Mrs Hudson and smiled as she left. Sherlock quickly snatched it up.

“John…”

“What?” I drank a mouthful of tea.

“It’s from him.” I choked silently and put my mug down, shaking. Sherlock began to rip open the packaging, “Oh god.”

I looked over his shoulder and stared at his hands, now full of the contents. Amy’s long and dark hair was draped across both of his hands, overhanging on both sides and snaking through his fingers. He slid it off onto the desk and looked inside the packet, pulling a piece of card out.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.” Sherlock read it out loud before dropping it onto the hair, “John?”

My hand gripped the edge of the desk, dropping my mug.

“Why is he doing this to her?” My left hand curled into a fist as my whole body shook, with rage and overriding fear.


	13. Anticipation

Mycroft was sat with John, silently calming him down. It was rather tedious, every time Moriarty did something John seemed to lose control of himself. I retreated to the kitchen, reading The Bloody Chamber. It had to be connected, I thought, it just has to be.

“Why are you reading that book, Sherlock? Surely you could be checking that…package.” Mycroft spoke softly, his eyes not leaving John’s face.

“What’s the point? We all know it’s her hair. I don’t need to put it under a microscope to know it was taking unwillingly, look at the cut marks and the angle. No, this book is important too.”

I flicked through it and, as various titles appeared, ran my fingers through to the very front, slowly finding the contents page.

“John. Look at this.”

John walked over slowly, his limp starting reappear from when we first met.

“What?”

“See these? Don’t they remind you of fairy tales?”  
“Yeah I guess, but I don’t get-”

“Rapunzel? Another fairy tale? Moriarty’s using fairy tales.”

“What about these then?” Mycroft spoke and I turned around, forgetting he was there. My eyes narrowed at him for a few moments, “Yes?”

“I’m getting to that, Mycroft!” I hissed and put the book down, “Well, I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry?” Mycroft spluttered, “Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know the answer?”

“Yes!” I slumped slightly, staring at the pages, “I don’t know. I can look at this and say he could easily do any of the things in this book, but which ones I don’t know. And I don’t know the order, when they’ll come or if they’ll help us even find Amy.”

“How many are there?”

“There’s ten stories, although whether he’ll do them all I don’t know.”

“Can we assume then,” John spoke slowly, “that the closer we get to ten, the closer we get to…”

He broke off, the silence drifting between all three of us trying to find its place. I turned around and looked at John, trying to make eye contact with him.

“We will find her John. Mycroft, start tracing that postmark, find out where it came from. Mrs Hudson!” I raised my voice to the level I had perfected to reach downstairs. I leant back in my chair and waited to hear her soft yet frantic footsteps climb the stairs and pushed my teacup towards John: it was good for him to be distracted.

“I’m putting a sugar in it, Sherlock.”

“No, how many times do you have to be told-”

“I don’t care. You barely eat on…on…” John stumbled over his words, missing his own mug as he dropped tea bags in two mugs and two teacups, “You barely eat, so you need some energy while we do this.”

He placed my cup back in front of me, his hand resting next to it.

“No ifs or buts, you’re having some every now and then.” I smiled and let my fingers brush against his thumb before taking the cup, grimacing as the sugar hit my tongue first. His fingers slipped in between mine, stroking the bones and tendons of my palm.I turned my hand over and opened my hand out, inviting him further and watched his middle finger lead the voyage towards my wrist, my sleeve curving at his touch before it slid down, following the vein that made my heart pound. Right now my heart was skipping, missing its usually laborious beats.

“Yes Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson interrupted the dance of our hands tentatively.We looked at each other briefly, a smile finally across John’s face. He was relieved, relaxed even, by our minor physical moment. I looked down at his hand as I spoke to Mrs Hudson and fixated on how it lay on the worktop. Still open, palm up, his fingers slightly bent as if waiting for the next touch. Anticipation. I flicked my fingers across my lips and pressed them into his palm before standing up.

“Where are you going?” He spluttered.

“Oh come now, John, there’s a girl to be found.” I leant towards him and lowered my voice, “We can’t spend all day flirting you know.”


	14. The Bloody Chamber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to not describe scenes that may disturb people, such as the very graphic violence and the rape that Amy endures. As the narrative progresses, you'll see this in a different light.

“I see you’ve woken!” My eyes edged open, the night sky teasing them open better than any dull daylight ever could, “Oh good, I was worried you wouldn’t.”

As I recognised the voice, the words jarred in meaning.

“I don’t-”

“Oh silly me!” Moriarty turned on a light, illuminating the v-neck t-shirt and jeans he wore and, as usual, his eyes boring into me. Now I knew that I had been unconscious for some time. We were in a car, moving along at some speed, “I made that sound like I cared! You see, Amy, if you gave up on us then I’d be ever so bored.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I took in his entire appearance. He only seemed to wear suits on days he was expecting to see Sherlock, as the last few days had seen him in anything but, from what I remembered. His knuckles were slightly bruised and I winced with memories.

“Yes very bored indeed.” He moved closer to me and continued to speak, his lips touching my neck, “These needs are very bothersome, they do slow me down sometimes. But now I don’t have to let them.”

I turned as he forced his lips onto mine, fingers pulling at my shirt. I pushed myself against the car door and, upon realising my hands were still tied behind my back, tried to find the door handle to open it. Surely falling from the car, wounding myself, killing myself even, would be better than this?

“Really, do you think we wouldn’t lock the car?” He laughed and pulled my shorts down, the tears rolling down my face. I couldn’t scream. I’d given up hope when Moriarty started abusing me himself.

*

John's Point of View:

“John, there’s another delivery for you.” Mrs Hudson came up the stairs and placed it next to me.

“Same postmark?” Mycroft stood by the window.

“No, it isn’t.” Sherlock looked up after Mrs Hudson’s response and snatched it from the table.

“He’s heading closer to your home town, John. We need to get there, and soon.” He looked at me and I nodded.

“What’s in there this time?” I sipped my tea, waiting anxiously. He ripped it open and tipped the contents onto the floor, “What the-”

Sherlock grabbed the main item, a strange and bloodied piece of fabric whilst Mycroft read the slip of paper.

“We do not hang the bloody sheets out of the window, but you can. What on earth-”

“It’s a quote.” Sherlock spoke from the kitchen, examining the fabric, “from The Bloody Chamber.”

I watched him as he grimaced and left the microscope.

“John, why don’t you take a walk?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I want to discuss things with Mycroft that I don’t want to tell you just yet.” His eyes wouldn’t leave mine, “I will tell you later I just…”

“Yes?” I stared defiantly.

“I want to make sure you’re safe first.” I rolled my eyes and walked towards the door, fingering my cane that leant against the bookshelf.

*

Sherlock's Point of View:

I waited for him to leave, hearing silence after the door closing that confirmed he had left. Mycroft looked through the curtain and nodded at me.

“So what did you want to tell me?”

“He’s raped her.”  
“How can you be so sure?”

“There’s not just blood on this, which is the leather of a car seat by the way,” I walked back towards the kitchen, gesticulating slowly, “there’s semen too. And fingernail scratches towards the back of the fabric, away from the blood. They’re too close together to suggest her hands aren’t tied together, so Moriarty’s had her defenceless.”

“Well done.”

“What?” I snapped at Mycroft, narrowing my eyes.  
“Well done for not telling John yet. It’s good, he needs to find this out in a good space. I’ll leave you both alone, try and get that away before he gets back and I’ll sort out a train for tomorrow, “He really is being a good influence on you, if you’re thinking about his feelings.”

“Comes from living with him.”

“Just living with him?” I lowered my eyes, and kept silent, “I’ll take my leave.”

“Goodbye Mycroft.”


	15. Confessions

I sat in my chair, angled towards the door more than usual to watch the door. To wait for John. I looked down at my legs, counting the number of soft lines on my trousers as he entered.  
“Well what is it?” He stood in the doorway, leaning on it for support. I sighed, seeing him rely on other things, on his cane, drove me mad. Psychosomatic pain. He coudn't deal with this, and it was starting to hurt me to see him like this. What? I scolded myself, Sherlock Holmes slowing down with emotions? Never!  
“John, sit down.” I looked up at him and stared into his dark eyes, “I've deduced where that fabric came from.”  
“Right?” His hands fell onto his knees and I snatched them up into my own, holding them tightly.  
“Remember that I'm here for you?”  
“What-”  
“Just remember it.” I took a deep breath and shifted to the front of my seat, ready to catch John and his overpowering emotions, “Moriarty's...hurt Amy. And I knew it would hurt you to hear it and I don't know whether you want to know everything or if it would be better to not tell you and I don't want to tell you if you don't want to know, but I know I would want to know-”  
“Sherlock.” John spoke quietly. I looked up from where my eyes stayed on his hands, “It's okay. You don't need to tell me every detail, not if you or Mycroft think it'll hurt too much.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yeah. Besides,” He leant towards me, “I like this Sherlock.”  
“What?”  
“I like the Sherlock that cares a bit more about other people.” I let his hands slide away as he began to explain, “Can I ask one thing though?”  
“Yeah.” I refused to lean back, my eyes constantly scanning his face. One deep exhalation through his lips, making a low hushing sound as his eyes closed, reminded me why I was making sure this was the right thing to do.  
“Has he-” John swallowed, coughing nervously as his hands scratched at his legs, “he, has he really hurt her?”  
“John,” I looked up and took a deep breath myself, reminding myself of everything that was happening. His silver cane caught my eye and I looked back down at his hands, “yes. Yes, I guess he has-”  
John's hands clasped into fists, one of them pushing against his hip. I winced as his psychosomatic pain returned, radiating across his hip and making his groin hurt as much as his stomach would be from the thought of James Moriarty's hands running across his sister's body. I forced the image out of my mind, Moriarty's smile staying firmly ingrained into my head.  
“Oh Sherlock!” I looked up and saw the tears running from his face, “Oh.”  
The noise kept coming, John's face tearing into several emotions in the space of a few moments. Anger, distress, depression, rage, arousal, emotional and physical torment, nausea- arousal? I dismissed the thought. Why would he be excited now, of all times? He stood up and raised his hands, turning around searching desperately for a way out. I stood and took his hands again, pulling them back towards me when he tried to pull away.  
“John, please calm down, it'll be okay, I promise.” I tried to pull him closer to me, trying to find a way to soothe him. I tugged one last time on his wrists and he turned around, staring at me. He stretched up and edged closer to me awkwardly and, whilst I knew what he was doing, I stood looking down at him. His lips, slightly damp with the tears that had ran down his face from my confirmation of his fears, touched mine forcefully. I lowered my bottom lip for him, encapsulating the only part of him touching me: I had dropped his hands the second he touched me. I kissed back slightly, my mind whirring as I desperately tried to think what I should do next. Before I could do anything John's hands were in my hair and his whole body shook, pulling away from me slightly.  
“I'm sorry.” He whispered and tried to step away. I wrapped my arm around his shoulder and let him sob against me.  
“Never be sorry, John.” I kissed the top of his head and slowly guided us into my chair, letting him sit on my lap as his sobs subsided into heavy breathing.


	16. I Need You

John's PoV:

“Amy!” I awoke suddenly, the words tumbling from my dream. My breath was shallow and hard in my mouth, barely reaching my lungs to satisfy my needs for oxygen. The feel of Sherlock's legs shifting underneath me, his hand snaking around my shoulder, calmed me slightly and I looked to my left. A book sat in his left hand, his phone next to him and he kept his eyes on the book.  
“Deep breaths John.”  
“Oh dear John, bad dream?” Mrs Hudson's voice echoed from the kitchen. I began to answer as my eyes snuck back into sleep, before snapping open and starting to slide towards my own chair.  
“Yeah- what are you doing here, Mrs Hudson?”  
“She's packing us some things. Naturally I couldn't, with you here.” Sherlock's hand ran across my back again.  
“I'll move then.” I crouched before straightening my back to walk over to my own chair. But before I could straighten my back and shake away my back pain and nightmare, Sherlock pulled at my jumper.  
“No.” I looked down at him and let his hand pull me back onto his lap, wrenching his hand away from my shoulder to push my head against his chest, “I want you to stay, please.”  
I could see Sherlock's book, The Bloody Chamber. I winced as I read the graphic description of a Count figure fucking a dead girl.  
“Sherlock why are you reading that?”  
“It's quite interesting really. I think this one is my favourite.”  
“Sherlock, he's fucking-” I smirked as I began to express my revulsion: glad to see Sherlock wasn't changing too much for me.  
“Yes I know, I'm not that naïve. I think Amy might like me when she finds out I like Angela Carter.”  
“Of course she'll like you, you just need to let her get to know you.” I spoke sleepily and let the warmth radiating from Sherlock's chest soothe me, letting me go back to sleep slowly.  
“John?” Sherlock's hand gently rubbed my back, “Wake up, Mycroft's on his way.”  
“So?” I buried my head further into his jumper, taken in by the soft smell of vanilla from the washing. I was safe here, didn't have to accept what was happening and how little control I really had.  
“So we'll be going to get Amy back for you.” He patted my back slightly to coax me up and out of his lap.  
“Sorry.” I stood quickly, “Erm, how long have I been sat there?”  
“Well, you fell asleep last night rather late, and then a few hours after Mrs Hudson was here.”  
“Sorry.” I grimaced.  
“For what?” Sherlock stood and looked at the door, his eyes narrowing. Clearly Mycroft was here, particularly as he lowered his mouth to my ear, “Don't apologise for keeping our spirits high John.”  
“Am I interrupting?” Mycroft exhaled as he spoke and I kept my back to him, smiling slightly, “Or are we not getting this train?”  
“Oh but of course dear brother!” Sherlock swept up his coat and fixed his scarf as he began to walk down the stairs, “Get the bag, will you John?”

Amy's PoV:

“They're moving Jim.” Moriarty's eyes moved away from me and looked at the man stood in the doorway. He pushed himself up from his kneeling position and walked towards him.  
“How much do you know Seb?”  
“They got a train less than half an hour ago, to Salisbury.”  
“What, got here?” Moriarty shouted and Seb flinched slightly.  
“They left London half an hour ago, we've still got three hours or so.”  
“Oh good, good! Well done, Seb.” He kissed his forehead and walked towards me slowly, Seb grinning, “Did you hear that darling? Johnny boy's coming to get you, so I guess we'd better hurry up.”  
He reached me and pulled out his phone, dialling and raising it to his ear.  
“Answerphone. Brilliant.” He rolled his eyes at me and pointed at the phone, “Although, this might be good.”  
He turned away and I kept my eyes on the back of his head.  
“Hey Johnny! I realised I was being a little selfish, keeping your sister all to myself and not checking in once. Well, that is a little lie, did you get my packages? Can't wait for the thank you letter from you both, we both know you keep Sherlock in check with his manners these days. Amy is...well, she's Amy.” He gestured towards me with his head and Seb walked towards me, squeezing my shoulders tightly, “Frankly, I can't keep her off me, if you know what I mean. Isn't that right, Amy?”  
“I suggest you say yes, my Jim doesn't like to be disappointed.” Seb whispered into my ear, “And I do have a little knife in my pocket, in case your brother wants more packages.”  
“Yes.” I cried out and stifled a sob, closing my eyes.  
“I'd better go, John, looks like your sister's getting the wrong idea!” He took the phone away from his ear and held it out before nodding to Seb.  
One hand covered my mouth whilst the other held the knife, slowly pushing it into my arm until drops of blood began to emerge from the dry and dirty surface. He continued to push with both hands as my stifled screams entered the microphone of Moriarty's phone and embedded themselves within John's answerphone.

Sherlock's PoV:

“Have you got enough patches?”  
“Yes.” Irritated by Mycroft's persistent checks, I answered bluntly, “John, pass me one. Mycroft's driving me to nicotine.”  
John duly pulled the box out of the bag, his phone clasped to the box inbetween his fingers. I looked and remembered fondly how just two days ago those fingers were clinging onto mine. We were starting to stop dancing around, at least with the door shut anyhow. I remembered Mycroft was watching my every move and straightened my back, resting my eyes on his as I took the box from John.  
“Thank you. Can I help you, Mycroft?” Mycroft shook his head and pulled his phone out, “Oh, Anthea is it?”  
“Yes, it is.” He smiled at me, “Hello.”  
I looked out of the window and guessed we were less than five minutes from the station. Three minutes at the most. John fidgeted next to me and I began to watch him, immediately sensing the tension riding through his body.  
“John?” He turned towards me, his eyes open with alarm as he pressed his phone against his ear, “Who is it John?”  
“Mo-Mo-Moriarty.” John lowered the phone and pressed a button, turning it onto loudspeaker. Mycroft hung up his own phone and closed the communication hatch to the driver in one fluid motion.  
“-I can't keep her off me, if you know what I mean.” Moriarty's voice broke out of the speaker.  
“Yes!” John gasped with a dry mouth, breathing heavily at the first sound of his sister. I automatically reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. The taxi pulled up and Mycroft opened the hatch, pushing two twenties through and muttering to the driver. The taxi stayed still and I nodded slightly at my brother, “She's still alive!”  
“Are you okay John?” Mycroft spoke slowly, “We can stay here as long as you need to.”  
“Why don't you go ahead,” I kept my eyes on John as I spoke, monitoring his breathing mentally. Inhale. Exhale. Too fast, needs to calm down, “and see how long until the train? You can text.”  
Mycroft opened his mouth to argue and quickly shut it, leaving quickly. John turned to me as soon as we were out of view and smiled slightly, closing his eyes as he breathed through his mouth.  
“That's right, slowly.” I rubbed his hand with my thumb, skating it across his knuckles and watching him as he controlled himself, “See, you don't even need me to calm you down anymore. You're getting a lot better.”  
I opened the door and went to slip out as John's hand tightened its grip.  
“I do need you.”


	17. Blood Baths

Amy's PoV:

I screamed as Seb's knife dragged across my arm, skin flaying away from the blade and blood pouring profusely down onto his own forearm. My vision began to fade into his smile, my hearing into the sound of Moriarty praising him.

Sherlock's PoV:

“I don't think we should show it to him-” Mycroft began to explain.  
“Obviously. You really are stupid sometimes, Mycroft.” I snapped.  
“I know that you wouldn't want to, no matter what I say.” His hands held the package tighter, the lid still open, “You've grown to care, and I'm pleased someone finally managed to show you how to.”  
“Don't-”  
“I know exactly why you don't want to show John this.”  
“Go on then, indulge me!” I spat my words at my brother.  
“You don't want to hurt him anymore. The last week has been more than enough for a lifetime, without even throwing in Afghanistan and his lovely meeting with Moriarty. You've realised you bring him more pain than you're worth and maybe more pain will drag him away from you. And you've realised if he leaves you'll experience all of that pain yourself.”  
“Very funny.”  
“I'm not stupid Sherlock. But I'm happy for you. He's always been good for you.” I looked briefly at my brother before pushing the lid of the box down.  
“Dispose of that when you can, don't let John see it.”  
“Of course. Why would I let him see that? I do have a brain, Sherlock.”  
“I'm sure you do.” I walked away and returned to John's hotel room.

John's PoV:

“John?” I stood with my back to Sherlock, my phone pressed to my ear. The dulcet tones of my mother's voice coated my ear and I smiled as I turned around to look at Sherlock. He'd begun to undo his shirt and raised his eyebrows at me.  
“My mum.” I mouthed the words at him and laughed as he rolled his eyes and flopped onto the bed, his feet lifting off the floor briefly.  
“What are you laughing at John? Who's there with you?” Her tone changed slightly, laced with worry.  
“Don't worry mum. So we'll be over tomorrow morning, yeah?”  
“Of course. I look forward to seeing you- wait, who's we?”  
“Erm, bye mum.” I quickly hung up, pretending to not hear her last comment, “Tomorrow morning, we're going to see my parents.”  
“Really?” Sherlock rolled onto his front, his shirt slightly undone and showing the start of his ivory collarbones.  
“Yep. You'd better be good then.” I sat next to him and shifted my weight around, “Erm, Lock?”  
“Mhmm?” His eyes were closed as he rolled back onto his front and began to undo his shoes.  
“I think you should stay in your room tonight.” Sherlock's eyes snapped open.  
“What?” He stood, smoothing his trousers and slipping his shoes back on. He looked hurt.  
“I don't want Moriarty to try and keep us away from him by hurting you.” I kept my eyes on the ground, “I'm sorry. And I've got a lot of things to think about, I need some space to myself.”  
I stood and saw his eyes still looked laden with pain, whilst his lips sealed close together, holding everything together. I stepped close and raised a hand to his face gently and, upon seeing his eyes close tight with an air of grimace, stopped.  
“Just for tonight.” I lowered my hand and let it brush against his knuckles before walking into the bathroom. I closed the door quietly and waited, holding my breath, until Sherlock left. The click of the bedroom door was loud in the silence and I gripped the sink until my knuckles turned white, tears streaming hot and fast down my cheeks and into my four-day stubble. I began to run the bath hot and stripped off, staring at my shoulder covered with scar tissue, ugly and brass amongst the freckled skin that survived Afghanistan. I let my fingers slide over the tissue and closed my eyes. The smooth didn't fit with what it brought to my life. Almost brought it to an end. I shook my head slightly as it brought back memories of searing pain, of therapy, of meeting Sherlock. Smooth metal entering and ripping my body apart internally. Smoothly dressed man entering my life and ripping it apart internally. The face in my mind was Afghani, blurring into Moriarty in the dark Westwood suit that controlled me for an evening that ricocheted my mind back to Helman, before melting into Sherlock. The Sherlock in my mind opened his mouth to speak, but Moriarty's voice came out.  
“Hello Johnny.” The words sounded so real I snapped, my hands grabbing for the bottles as weapons. I relaxed when I realised I was still alone and, after checking the bathroom lock again and moving my gun closer to the bath, got into the scalding water.


	18. Many Returns

Sherlock's PoV:

I stood by the window and gazed out into the back garden of the Watsons' house, the regimentally trimmed hedges and ordered rows of flowers and vegetables at the back of the garden were painting a clear picture.

“See that?” Mycroft stood next to me.

“Yep.” I rocked back and forth on my feet, turning around and meeting John's gaze. The smile dropped off my face and I turned my face towards Mycroft. That'd bug him, I thought, he hasn't got my full attention. He'd much rather have me ignore him, sulk for the morning and ignore him than divide my attention, “Control problems.”

“Sorry dear?” Mrs Watson walked back in with a tray full of biscuits, cups and a teapot.

“Nothing. So when was the last time you saw Amy?” I sat down next to John and smiled up at his mother.

“Well,” She took a breath. Controlling herself, clearly. “She was here a few weeks ago, before she was meant to go back to university. But there was a problem, she, erm, she-”

“It's okay mum, take your time.” John held his mother's hand as she sat in the chair closest to him. I glanced at Mycroft and his shoulders shrugged dismissively.

“Amy was going out a lot. You know, we never saw her during the day until she was up and ready to go out. I'd asked her to stop for a while, have a break, but she said she could stop any time. Anyway, she went out one night and came back late, very late. I didn't stay up, but I heard the front door.”

“Do you know what kind of time that was, Mrs Watson?” Mycroft spoke softly.

“Erm, about four in the morning? Yes, it must've been. And Andrew- that's John's father, I mean- went into her room at nine, try and get her up for a day rather than keep the cycle going. I waited by our bedroom at first, but then I heard a lot of noise, a scuffle of some sort.”

“Yes?” I was growing impatient of her dragging it out.

“I opened the door and there were two men in her room. Various states of dress, I think one of them had his underwear on but the other was wearing trousers. Yes, yes, none of them were naked. Andrew was shouting at them and they left pretty quick, laughing and not really saying anything.”

“Not really or nothing at all?” I sat up. This might give us a clue.

“I didn't hear what he said, but one of them had an Irish accent. Anyway, Andrew was pushing them down the stairs when I saw needles on her floor. Some of them weren't used, I think they had been dropped, but there were two used ones on her bedside cabinet.” Mrs Watson began to cry and took a sip of tea.

“Oh mum.” John rubbed her hand. I looked and curled my lip up at the sight. He couldn't help, not now. My mind pushed the thought of his hands rubbing mine to the front of my mind, before I forcibly knocked it back.

“She had quite a few marks on her arms, some were very fresh-”

“But some were misses of veins altogether?” I interjected.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I've seen Amy's arm. Can we see her room, Mrs Watson?”

“Yes, of course. And please, call me Sarah.” She began to lead us up the stairs, “I've left everything how it was.”

“Everything? Including the needles?”

“Yes, I, I couldn't bring myself to touch them. John, are you trying to find her?”

“Yes, we are. We really are trying, aren't we Lock?” John looked at me as I went to enter his sister's room.

“Yes, we are. Sarah.” I pulled a pair of plastic gloves out of my pocket. Force of habit from all the crime scenes with Lestrade. I smiled at the memories, but forced myself to a halt: this was no crime scene. Not as detached as usual, “Typical Moriarty.”

“Sorry?” John spoke as he held his mother's hand.

“Nothing. Talking to myself.” I looked back and smiled at him. I noticed the needles, one of which was covered in dried blood. Very messy insertion, I noted mentally. I bagged them, Amy's diary and cut out a part of her bedsheet, some bodily fluids dried into a mass onto it. As I went to leave, I noticed an envelope next to her bed addressed to me and John. Well, not really, I thought. Since when did we go by Johnny-boy and Lock? I shoved it into my pocket and shuddered. How dare he use John's name for me?

“All done?” John smiled at me and held my gaze. I pulled the envelope out far enough for him to recognise the handwriting and waited until he nodded before putting it back.

“Yeah. Very revealing, actually.”

“What do you mean, revealing?” Sarah Watson followed me downstairs, her voice spiked with hope.

“Well,” I pulled Amy's diary out and flipped onto the latest entry, “Amy talks about a house party at this address-”

“I'll take that.” Mycroft took the book out of my hand and got his phone out simultaneously, “We'll have transport within the hour, if not sooner.”

“Good. I reckon the next clue will be there. If not Amy herself.” The front door banged open and shut.

“What about Amy?” John's father dropped his suitcase at the door, “Sarah, who are these men?”

“This is my husband-”

“Who are they Sarah?” Mr Watson raised his voice and his eyebrows pointedly at his wife.

“Hi dad.” John moved into his father's eyeline, “This is Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, they're friends of mine. We're looking for Amy-”

“Yes, well, we aren't. As far as we're concerned, she can stay away. Isn't that right, Sarah?” Mr Watson walked over to Sarah and forcibly pulled her out of John's grasp. His hand tightened as she paused before answering.

“I, I-” She stumbled over her words.

“Dad, we just want to make sure she's ok. She's my sister, your daughter-”

“I only have two children, John.” The two Watson men stared into each other's eyes. John might have been younger, but his father had kept himself in a good physical condition even after his military career. A fight would certainly be interesting, I thought.

“She's still my sister.” John spoke through gritted teeth, his fists clenched. My eyes scanned across his body and saw every weakness that he'd gathered was fading fast. My John was coming back to me.

“Don't make me lose my son too, John Hamish Watson.” His father leant closer, lowering his voice so we could barely hear, “I'll do it in the blink of an eye.”

“Goodbye mum.” John kept his eyes on his father, speaking slowly, “You can't bully me like you bullied her.”

He turned on his heel and walked out in a matter of seconds. I followed suit, making no farewell message for either of his parents. The second we were out of sight of John's childhood home, I bent down and kissed him feverishly.

“What'ssthat for?” John stumbled over his words, a hand stroking the back of my shoulder.

“For coming back to me, John.”

“I never left-” He chuckled.

“The John Hamish Watson I fell in love with has come back to me.” John pulled away at my words initially, before moving closer to kiss me again. I placed a finger over his lips and smiled, “Not now, John. The game is on!”

Amy's PoV:

The dark fades away from my vision, but I keep my eyes closed. I can feel the light, burning into my eyelids. A dribble of liquid splatters onto my lips and I involuntarily open them, the skin cracking and what I hope to water fills the deep and dark lines. I keep my eyes closed, praying Moriarty will leave me alone soon.

“Well, she's still alive.” Seb's voice was loud and burnt into my eardrums.

“Good.”


	19. The Final Game, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of two for this chapter, bear with me for part two!

John's PoV:

I was out of the car the second it stopped, standing in front of the building, taking it all in. Most of the windows were boarded up, the ones left were smashed wide open. The door was almost completely off its hinges, the steps up to the door rotten and unstable. Each one creaked under every foot, Sherlock giggling as Mycroft started to ascend.

“What's so funny?” He hissed.

“Your diet isn't working, I see.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder slightly, before examining the door, “Broken a long time ago. Nobody lives here then.”

“Oh, and only you could tell?” I sighed into my hands as Mycroft snapped.

“Boys, please.” I gritted my teeth with anger and looked at them both, “Sherlock, where's your coat?”

“Of course, sorry.” Mycroft smiled slightly at me.

“Sorry John. Oh, my coat? Must've left it in the car.” Sherlock pulled the door back and gestured me inside. We stepped inside, footsteps echoing around the room. Dust rose heavily, and the room was poorly lit, “Mycroft, take some of that boarding off? It looks loose from here.”

Mycroft walked across, tugging at it briefly before it fell away in his hands. Damp, riddled with instability. The room lit up, although it stayed dark on the other side. For now, this would do. With the extra light, I noticed a staircase sweeping up, a once-grand balcony merging the stairs and the upstairs rooms. A slight movement kept my eyes there.

“I see you haven't found my last clue.” My eyes closed slowly as I heard the voice that filled my nightmares. Sherlock glanced at me, moving closer, “Are we getting slow, hmm?”

Someone began to move along the balcony.

“I'll give you a moment to look outside. Any one of you will do. Come on, chop chop!” His hands clapped together. Mycroft leant out of the window and walked back over, “Well, what do you think?”

“Is she here then?” Mycroft coughed, trying to keep his voice level and calm.

“Of course she is. Sebastian!” His voice whined the name, “How is our guest?”

“She's fine. A bit tied up with things though.” The voice was deeper than Moriarty's, and unknown to both myself and Sherlock. Mycroft's hands ran across his face. Moriarty and Sebastian began to descend the stairs, Sherlock shuffling towards me casually.

“Oh, I haven't made introductions, how rude of me.” He jumped off the last step and sauntered towards Sherlock, “Seb, this is Sherlock and John. John is Amy's brother, there are quite a few resemblances, and Sherlock is Mycroft's brother. You already know each other though, of course-”

“What?” I turned towards Mycroft.

“You didn't know? Well this is delightful!” Moriarty rubbed his hands together, “Mycroft was rather cozy with Seb, when I asked him to be. Told me all about your little house guest, Sherlock, and I just had to meet her! Simply jumped at the chance to give you two a little time to yourselves. Not to mention keep this little game going.”

He laughed.

“Speaking of games, how's your little one going, eh?” His eyes flicked between us both, “Oh come on! This little game, playing gay-”

“Where is she?” My teeth were gritted, hands clenched tightly into red fists with white knuckles almost bursting through the taut skin.

“Every game has to keep going, Johnny boy.” Moriarty's voice whined again. I leapt towards him, knocking him to the ground.

“Fuck the games, where is she? Where,” I panted between each word, pushing at his face and, “is, she?”

Moriarty looked past me, his eyebrows raised expectantly. I felt the cool of the barrel of a gun against the nape of my neck and dropped away from Moriarty. My hands raised, I stood back up and kept my head down, staring at the floor.

“Good boy!” He jumped up, his ankles clicking together in the air. Moriarty's whole body swung into Sebastian, who still held a gun to my head, kissing the marksman's temple. His eyes stayed fixed on me, before smoothing his suit down, “John, you really must remember-”

“Let me guess, Westwood?” Sherlock interrupted him with a grimace.

“You know me so well! Got a keeper there Johnny.”

“Please, tell me where she is.” My teeth were gritted once more, my jaw clenched with desperation.

Amy's PoV:

The chain cut into my wrists, hard and grating. As Sebastian's fingers pressed into my neck, feeling for a pulse, vomit bubbled from my stomach and out of my mouth.

“Oh baby, that isn't very attractive at all.” The last two words were coated with an American twang, “You can stop searching Seb, she's alive.”

“Yes boss.” The hands left my neck and pulled on the chain, “All secure. What now?”

I pulled my eyes open and saw Moriarty pull a long dark coat out of a plastic bag. Wasn't that-, my thoughts were interrupted by him.

“What are you looking at, eh?” He threw the coat to Sebastian, “Eyes down, you stupid, stupid bitch!”

Moriarty's hand closed around my neck, pushing further than Sebastian did. My vision began to blur. My mouth went dry. Air left my lungs for the last time.

Let me die, please, I thought.

The room went black.

Mycroft's PoV:

My eyes raced around the room, taking in every detail. The time we left the car was imprinted in my mind, I wanted to have the most thorough report known to the government when this was through, I thought. And I wanted it without Sherlock's help, I added.

I watched every move made by John. The last thing I needed was my brother falling for his flatmate, his business partner, the man that kept him grounded. The worst thing Sherlock could see, right now, was John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Northumberland Fusiliers, being shot into several pieces in front of him.

The thought of Sherlock's love crumbling in front of him triggered a painful memory. Sherlock, lying on the floor of 221B, needle next to him, vomit pouring out of his mouth. Emaciated, weak, snappy without the heroin in his blood, withdrawn from everything. Their study in pink, John's entrance and Lestrade's easy persuasion to keep Sherlock close meant Sherlock was more stable than he had been since he left home.

What, I thought, is Mycroft Holmes going soft? I mentally reprimanded myself. Vital information was slipping before my eyes, and here I was reminiscing about a Sherlock that will never return to me.

I hoped.

Sherlock's PoV:

I glanced at John as Moriarty approached us, hoping he remembered our sign for distraction. John's suddenly clenched fists filled that hope: he did remember. As my John launched himself towards the enemy, I tapped frantically at my phone.

'Lestrade, 56 Park Road. Emergency, John danger Amy dying.'

I winced at the last two parts. John would not be in danger, not if I had anything to do with it. Amy is probably dying, or at least injured. The barrel of the gun pushed into the back of John's head and I went to disarm Sebastian.

Mycroft's hand on my wrist reminded me of what was at stake. John needed to feel all the power when it came to getting his sister back.

Amy's PoV:

The room started to come back to me. My shoulders stung, my toes dragged along the floor. I kicked and struggled against the chain, trying to put my feet flat on the floor. I pushed, all of my strength going into a downward struggle and slipped, screaming out in pain. I swung back and forth, screaming over and over and over into the vomit soaked rag in my mouth, one shoulder lower than the other.

I swung back and forth, losing all control.

John's PoV:

I looked at Sherlock once more and counted as he kept his eyes closed. Five seconds. So he had got hold of Lestrade, enough for a reply. Five minutes. I closed my own and looked back at Moriarty.

“Oh come on, the game has to have clues, Jim!” I hissed, playing him at his own game. Moriarty's eyebrows raised.

“I love this John, have you been teaching him new tricks, Sherlock?” He walked towards me, pulling a gun out of the back of his jacket. Sherlock went to push him away from me, jealousy filling his bodily functions, “I don't think so, do you?”

The gun touched my temples, Moriarty's lips touching my cheekbone.

“Get away from him.”

“I do things my way, when we are here.” His jaw was clenched.

I looked at Sherlock, hoping he was reading me like a book through my eyes. Oh Sherlock, I thought, it'll be over soon.

Sherlock's PoV:

According to my calculations, we had three minutes left, I thought. When did five minutes ever take so long?


	20. We've Got You

John's PoV:

I made a mental note to scrub my face raw when we got home and to shave. Sherlock wouldn't be in the same room until I did. Memories of throwing away my parka from Sherlock walking out of 221B every time he saw it filled my mind. A car drove past outside and I looked at Sherlock. He was looking right at me.

Lestrade was here.

“What? Why are you looking at him like that? What?” Moriarty began to shout and we kept silent, hoping Mycroft would cotton on and stop Sebastian walking towards the window.

“Police, Jim.” Sebastian's movements were quick. None of us anticipated his response to Lestrade's team moving in.

Gun still in his hand, he spun it and thumped it against Mycroft's head as he walked past. The cracking sound left blood on the handle, Mycroft on the floor, and Sherlock's hands in the air as the gun was pointed at him.

“Go and head them off, Seb, I can handle these two.” Moriarty moved backwards, gun still pointed at me.

“You sure?”

“Yes, they won't jeopardise each other. MOVE!” He bellowed at Sebastian and smiled at us, “I'm sorry baby, looks like our date will be cut short.”

He began to head out the back door.

“What about Amy?” Sherlock spoke slowly.

“Oh yes! She's here. Somewhere. As Johnny said, the game never ends. And here's a little extra level for you: you've got, ooh, probably five minutes at the very most to find her?”

“Or what?”

“Or...” He turned back towards us, hand on the door. He pushed it hard, the wood slamming into the wall, “Boom!”

I looked at Sherlock, panic in both of our eyes.

“How big did you say the building was?” My voice was weak.

“I didn't. It's three floors, and a basement.”

“Right.” My legs fell out from under me briefly and Sherlock's hands grabbed my waist, holding me close, “Not now, oh God-”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade ran through the door, his gun in hand, “John, are you okay?”

“Yes, he'll be fine.” Sherlock pulled me up and looked at me for a moment, “Five minutes until a bomb, apparently. Of some sort.”

Lestrade stood there, still trying to take everything in. My vision was still blurry.

“Well? Don't just stand there!” Sherlock tried to let me go and my knees shook. He sank me down onto the floor, “John. I'm going to go and find her. You'll be okay?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock half-smiled and ran off after Lestrade, bolting up the stairs. Only when he reached the top did he spin round.

“Sally! Mycroft's unconscious, sort him out. And not how you sort out Anderson, I heard you'd been looking after him after his divorce.” I snorted with laughter and looked at the Sergeant, who now stood sheepishly next to an unconscious Mycroft Holmes.

“How does he know-”

“Well-”

“SHERLOCK!” Lestrade stood next to Sherlock and bellowed, elbowing him out of the way of the door, “You're slowing us down.”

Sherlock stood to one side, his eyes racing around. I stayed on the floor, watching him intently.

“What is it, Lock?”

“Aha! Moriarty came from upstairs, right?”

“Yeah?”

“She's in the basement!” The last word rang through my ears and I mustered all my energy to stand and run towards the basement.

I overestimated my ability to stand, as the building began to go black the further I went.

“John!” The sound of my knees crashing against a wooden floor turned Sherlock's head, who scooted back to me. Lestrade stood awkwardly halfway between myself and the basement, “Go ahead Lestrade.”

“Go Lock, I'll be ok.”

“No, I'm staying right here. Lestrade'll find her, I'm sure of that.” He listened out to the rest of the building.

“Down here!” The echoing sound of Lestrade's cries resonated back to us, and a couple of officers headed towards the basement.

“I told you. Now, how are you John?” He looked back down at me.

“Better. A lot better to hear we've found her.”

“Well-”

“Ok. You found her.” I chuckled softly and leant against Sherlock.

Amy's PoV:

“Down here!” The voice was loud, but my eyes wouldn't focus on his face. It sounded similar, but I couldn't put a name to that voice. The feel of his hands against mine, loosening the chain that held me up, burnt the raw skin all over my hands and arms. I began to scream.

“Amy, it's alright, my name's Inspector Greg Lestrade, we're here to get you home. Andrew, bring your torch over here, I can't see properly.”

Andrew? The name rang a bell murkily in my head. I felt the light against my face and heard both Andrew and Greg gasp.

“Sally, I'm going to need an ambulance. Probably a helicopter. Go outside and get it sorted, don't worry John.”

The last name brought back flooding memories.

“John!” I exhaled and began to cry, my tears making my face sting and me cry harder.

“Yes, that's right Amy, John's just upstairs. Listen, we're going to get you down and lie you on the floor, okay? An ambulance is on it's way to make sure you're okay, don't worry about a thing. We've got you.”

Everything went black, Greg's last sentence filling me with ease.


	21. Task Force Fairy Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is meant to read like a government report. Mycroft basically fills in the gaps that John's panic attacks and Amy's dipping consciousness.

RE: 16. 7. 2013, 56 Park Road, Wiltshire Taskforce-Fairytale

Preceedings at the address are as follows. James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran took Amy Watson fifteen days ago from 221B Baker Street, London, the address of her brother John Hamish Watson and his live-in business partner, Sherlock Holmes. No police report was made, however, Inspector Greg Lestrade was informed of her disappearance two days later after requests for Holmes and Watson J. to assist at a case for the Metropolitan Police. Miss Watson was found thirteen days after her disappearance five minutes away from her current listed address, 12 Green Meadow. James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran were both holding firearms, I held my service firearm, however, still in my pocket due to a lower degree of violence at the point. Moran assaulted myself and I have been informed of the events after this. Inspector Lestrade arrived at the scene along with Detective Inspector Andrew Dimmock, and Sargeants Sally Donovan and Mark Anderson. Moran exited the building and was promptly arrested for possession of a firearm, with additional charges of grievous bodily harm and kidnapping. James Moriarty left the building and escaped before any attempt to restrain him could be made. Miss Watson was found in the basement of the building after a prompt search, strung up by chain and in a severe state of distress and injury. James Moriarty displayed a higher level of danger and security breach, as Sherlock Holmes left his coat in a government car, which was removed and wrapped around Miss Watson by Moriarty and Moran before their exit.

Injuries are as follows for Miss Watson. Dr Coyle, at St Barthes Hospital is currently treating Miss Watson. She was initially taken to A&E at Kings College University Hospital, and stabilised by a trauma team lead by Ms Nikki Munford. Several burns along the insides of her thighs and inner arms; totalling fourteen. Eight puncture wounds along her veins from drugging. Toxicology reports high levels Hydroxybutyric acid. Skin is raw along the outside of her arms and back, from removal of two layers of skin. Chest is agitated and sensitive, due to repeated shocking from both attackers and Ms Munford's team to keep Miss Watson alive. Heart is laborious, lungs are struggling to reach capacity. Miss Watson also displays lacerations across her wrists and ankles from binds, both rope and chain. Bruises and cuts across her face from beatings, both feet and hands have implicated these. One left shoulder dislocation. Following resuscitation during triage, Miss Watson has been put in an induced coma to assist the healing process. Plans are to reduce this gradually, with a total coma length of two days. Induced coma has also allowed an easier internal examination for Miss Watson. The examination reveals Miss Watson has undergone sexual intercourse during the thirteen day period.

Police investigations are underway and Miss Watson has confirmed the sexual intercourse Dr Coyle's examination indicated was not consensual. James Moriarty is currently wanted for grievous bodily harm, rape and kidnapping. Miss Watson is under police guard at St Barthes Hospital and is undergoing a recovery.


	22. Writer's Note

Ok, I'd just like to apologise for any hold-up regarding 'Every Fairy Tale Needs A Villain'. I've got my first year at university exams between now and the 31st May, so until then I'm not really writing.

I just thought everyone would like to know, in case they're really wanting another chapter. But it'll fly by, and I'll be back writing quickly :)

If you have any requests or ideas that you have for fanfiction (I also dabble in Harry Potter and The Hobbit fanfics as a sideline to this baby), then feel free to drop down to my tumblr at the221bmassive.tumblr.com :) This is also the best place to leave any feedback you have, because I'm on there a lot more then here and you're more likely to get a quick response that way!

Thank you for being so patient at the moment, I'll make it up to you all when I get writing, I promise!

Charlotte


	23. Wake Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have discovered Rich Text....so from this point, normal writing is Amy, Underlined is Mycroft, Bold is John and italicised is Sherlock :)

Moriarty loomed towards me, his hands sliding up my thighs. My hospital gown rustled as it slid further up, crinkling into my lap and stomach. My heart monitor continued to beep, incrementally speeding, my IV dripping silently. He pulled a hand away to slip the buttons of his trousers open and smiled at me crookedly.

“You'll never forget me. I'm almost flattered, really.” Jim Moriarty loomed over me, his body against mine.

I woke suddenly, my eyes snapping open. My breathing was heavy, my lungs still not filling enough to fulfil my needs. The beeping filled my ears and my hands gripped tightly to the sheets.

“Amy, it's okay, calm down.” My eyes darted towards the voice and closed, “Deep breaths, come on.”

Andrew Dimmock's hand slipped over mine and squeezed it gently. A nurse stuck her head around the door and, upon seeing my heart monitor decrease, smiled at me softly. I leant back into the pillows and sighed.

“I'm sorry. What are you doing here?”  
“John needed to go home, grab a shower and stuff. Lestrade promised one of us would be there at all times, just outside on the door, but I said I'd sit with you so he could have a break.”

“Is he okay?” I spoke weakly.

“Of course he is. How are you feeling?”  
“Bit rough. I'll be fine though.” I tried to move and Andrew winced, “What?”

“Doesn't it hurt?”

“What hurt?”

“Your back, there's not much skin left-”

“What?” I stared at him, panicking.

“I mean-” The door opened and John dropped his bag next to it, Sherlock peering round and frowning at the bag in his way.

“Amy.” He sat on the opposite side of me and held my hand, stroking my palm.

“What does he mean about my back?” John scowled at Andrew Dimmock and looked at Sherlock as he approached the foot of my bed. He picked up my notes and John smiled slightly.

“Can you not remember?”

“No, everything's a bit hazy.” John looked at Andrew and narrowed his eyes, “John, please. Tell me.”

“When Moriarty took you he...” John swallowed a lump in his throat, “hurt you. A lot. You're actually on a lot of pain relief, so you shouldn't feel much at the moment, but you need to know that you can't come home right away.”

“Home, John?” Sherlock lowered my notes.

“Yeah. To us.”

“John-”

“I spoke to dad. I don't want you going back to him right now, I'd like it if you stayed where I can see you, just for the summer.” John kept his eyes on me.

“Where will she stay?” Sherlock hissed, snapping them shut.

“I'm sure we can work something out.” John stood and smiled at his flatmate, “Besides, it might be a while before she comes home.”

“Why?” I spoke quietly.

“Well, there's a lot that they need to sort out. And I'm not prepared to see you come home until you're better, much better. There are, um, well, there's your back to start with, and burns on your arms and legs they need to deal with to. There's cut and bruises everywhere, Amy, and I know I can deal with those for you, but not with everything else. And there's counselling available, if you wanted it.”

“Why would I want counselling?” John's eyes dipped away from me, “John?”

Lestrade strolled through the door, smiling at me, breaking the stagnant discussion.

“Ah, Miss Watson. Glad to see you're awake. I've just been having a chat with your doctor, he said I can ask a few questions now, if that's okay?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So if you guys wanted to wait outside-” Lestrade's head cocked towards the door.

“Can John stay?”

“I-” Lestrade stumbled between protocol and staying in the good books of the duo that helped him on several occasions, “I guess so.”

He sat awkwardly next to me, his teeth biting several parts of his lips before he began.

“What I was planning to do was bring you up to date on everything that happened. Your doctor has informed me there's been a lot of hydroxybutyric acid in your system over the time-”

“Hydroxy what?”

“He means date rape, Amy.” John slid his hand over mine, “She doesn't know yet, Greg.”

“Well, that does explain the memory loss. Chances are things are hazy, so you might remember things if we shed some light on them. I do need to ask though, have you had sexual intercourse lately?”

“No, I don't remember.” The thought of Moriarty's hand running up the inside of my thigh flashed through my mind.

“Do you remember anybody touching you, sexually?” Lestrade coughed slightly.

“Greg, please-”

“Yes.” My lip trembled as I let the memory out, “I kind of remember it. I mean, I keep having nightmares about it, memories about it, thinking about it.”

“Is it okay if we discuss that? We can stop at any time.”

“I, I, it was Jim.” The first of many tears began to leak from my eyes, “I can't remember everything that happened, but I remember feeling his hand slide up-”

“Greg. Stop.” John gripped my hand, “Look what you're doing to her, just make it quick.”

“I am sorry, Amy, I wouldn't ask if I didn't have to.”

“Why can't it wait?” John hissed.

“Because we want to get the formalities out of the way before we begin a hunt for Moriarty. There's no point in tracking him down if we don't know what we're arresting him for. Now Amy, this next question will be very difficult for you. Did you consent to his actions?”

“No.” I shook my head frantically.

“Ok. Thank you, Miss Watson.”

“What does this mean, then?” John spoke quietly.

“It means we can add rape to his list of charges. All we needed was Amy's word, the medical proof was already there-”  
“What?”

“Well, after Amy was stabilised, and the doctors were aware of her situation, they began a thorough investigation. Including, I'm afraid, an examination for sexual activity. Anyway, I must be going. Oh, Dr Coyle told me he'd be in soon, but that it looks like you won't be here long.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” Greg smiled at me and drummed his fingers against the door, “I've explained your credentials, John, and he's changed his tune. Ah. Here he is now.”

The balding doctor edged through the door and smiled at DCI Lestrade, looking at him expectantly.

“All done are we officers? Good, some of us would like to speak to our patients finally.” He looked at me and rushed forwards, his hand stretched outward, “Hello Amy, I'm Dr Coyle. Glad to finally meet you, we've all been looking after you since you were transferred from King's. Mr Lestrade told me about you, John, and how you'd be more than capable looking after your sister if we decided to discharge her. Now obviously we wouldn't do this unless I thought you were stable. Not a single chance. So the fact that we're discussing it means you're progressing at a very good pace. An excellent pace even.”

“Okay. So what kind of time are we looking at, for discharge?”

“Let's see, Tuesday today, yes? Sorry, the days melt together when on shift.”

“Ah yes, I know the feeling.” John smiled.

“Yes, Tuesday. Well, I'd say Thursday. At this pace, anyway. Amy's body has still got a lot of recovering to do, as well as her mind.” Dr Coyle cleared his throat, “Now Amy, I need you to understand this. It will take some time for you to be able to go back out and do everything you usually do. Because of the nature of your burns, particularly on the inside of your legs, we'll have you on crutches for the first few weeks. But what I, as well as every other nurse and doctor, will tell you is this isn't a slow process. Some people don't recover from trauma like this for several years, it always varies.”

“Yeah.” I spoke slowly, trying to take it all in. Jim Moriarty had succeeded: he'd ruined my life for years.

“Now John,” Dr Coyle turned away from me and lowered his voice, but not enough, “Amy might struggle with this mentally. We call it post-traumatic stress disorder. As a military man, I'm sure you've seen people with this before-”

“You could say that.”

“It is very likely that Amy will suffer. It might be minor issues, like nightmares or items reconnecting her with her ordeal, but it could be major. We'll need you to be ready for this.”

“I'll look after her.”

 

*

 

**“So where did you intend on keeping Amy, John?” Sherlock spoke with his back to me, his violin held loosely in his hand.**

**“Well, I thought-”**

**“No, you didn't.” He spun around, gripping it tightly as it slipped away from him, “Under the stairs? On the sofa? With Mrs Hudson? Because the last time I looked, it was our flat, not yours to move in your siblings whenever you damn well feel like it. Ours.”**

**“Our flat, is it?” I raised my voice, “Didn't realise it was mine too when you kept shot the wall, or kept eyes and heads in the fridge-”**

**“The eyes were in the microwave, John.”**

**“Oh big deal!” I snapped and stepped closer to him, “It was our flat when you kept eyes in the microwave, why can't it be ours when I need to look after my sister?”**

**“Where is she going to stay then, hmm? Just when could you magic up a third bedroom out of thin air?”**

**“Sherlock will you just listen!” I bellowed, raising my hands above my head. I took a deep breath and lowered my voice, “Look. We can't ignore how we feel about each other, not anymore.”**

**“What?” Sherlock choked on his words.  
“No one needs to know, if that's what you're worried about. But seeing Amy like that, seeing her on the edge of life, has brought back my old mentality. We've gotta live for the now, Lock, and if that means sleeping in the same bed as you, then so be it.”**

**“You always said you weren't gay-”**

**“I know. It always confused me, how I felt about you. I guess I didn't believe it.” I stepped a bit closer and took another deep breath, “I need you, Lock.”**

**“So you're suggesting she stays in your bed then?” I nodded and looked up at him, not daring to blink. His eyes flicked around the room, the hazel brown sparking into green as his eyes danced across the window. Bathed in the light of the kitchen, his eyes became speckled with gold, “Ok, that could work.”**

**“Oh Lock.” I fell the last step towards him, landing straight in his arms. I breathed in the smell of Mrs Hudson's washing powder and smiled against his chest. Sherlock fell silent, his lip twitching, “What?”**

**“Eyes, in the microwave. Doesn't exactly compare to a living human being, really.” He giggled slightly. I laughed and pulled away from him slightly, “John?”**

**“Well, if Amy's coming home in a few days, we need to tidy this place up! And that does mean you'll have to take the liver out of the bread bin.”**

**“Owh John! Do I have to?”**


	24. Afghan Sun

**Grasping at the sheets tangled around my legs, I breathed my way out of my nightmare. The last few weeks had been plagued with Moriarty and Amy-related nightmares, and my return to Afghanistan was almost welcomed. I closed my eyes for a moment, extending my exhale until my lungs were completely empty.**

**Burning sun and sand that burnt skin forced their way back into my mind, lulling me back towards the dream I was trying to leave behind. I continued to slip back, allowing myself back into that lifestyle. It felt safe, cool, quiet. Maybe this wouldn't be like before. Maybe I wouldn't torment myself.**

**Sherlock stood ahead of me, no sweat on his forehead regardless of the thick coat he still wore. Maybe this wouldn't be like before.**

**The sudden chatter of live fire rang through my whole body and I fell, my leg giving way under the flesh memories of Afghanistan. The sand burnt through my hands, sticking to my face and in my hair. The fire was moving closer, my ears could sense it. Looking up, I saw Sherlock was still stood there, not a hair fazed by the danger surrounding him. Maybe I wouldn't torment myself.**

**Or not.**

**The sound died immediately, leaving only me and Sherlock on the desert plane once more. As I began to stand, one single round shot through the air, the crack of its entry into the air piercing my heart. As it pierced Sherlock's.**

**No amount of running would let me touch him. As Sherlock's body fell through the dense air and onto the sand I helplessly ran towards him. His red blood stained the sand, coagulating around his body as blood clotted into sandy lumps. I fell, crawling to reach him but still not reaching him. Sand in my mouth, burning my eyes and my skin tasted of blood, the iron taste sticking to my palate. Every scream, every noise I made for Sherlock clawed at my throat, pushing me further into the sand. Sherlock's blood leaked towards me until I could touch it myself, his body drained of all of his life.**

**“John.” Sherlock's voice rang through my ears, slowly getting louder. Tears of blood dripped off my nose into the sand, my whole body shaking.**

**“John!” My eyes snapped open and I took a deep breath, my whole body shaking. Waking from my nightmare felt like being brought back to life, my heart racing with adrenaline and fear. The sight of Sherlock above me, his hair hanging down towards me and his hands gripping my shoulders caught my breath in my throat, “It's okay, it's okay.”**

**As my breathing slowly returned to a normal pace, we sat in silence, Sherlock still bent over my body tangled in sweaty sheets, his bare skin touching me. I kept blinking, making sure he was really there. He never blinked. Lifting my left hand, I tugged on his wrist and pulled him close.**

**“John.” Sherlock murmured.**

**“Please.” I lowered him close to me and rubbed my nose against his, finally releasing. He continued to stare into my eyes as the last tears of my dreams fell away and I breathed in his scent, his anxiety-driven sweat and the faint smell of my aftershave on his jaw. My hand slipped into his hair and my fingers fell through it, the curls twining around every joint.**

**“May I?” His voice was soft, softer than I had ever heard it before. Looking down, I saw his hand was slipping under my shoulder. A single nod felt him pull me on top of him, his hand cradling my scar tissue and the other resting against my jaw. He looked up at me waiting patiently for what I needed. Whatever I needed.**

**My hands went into autopilot. Sherlock Holmes' face was my patient, in desperate need of a physical. Fingers stroked every potential wrinkle emerging into his skin, smiles making creases I could trace further. Cheekbones and jawlines were flicked by my thumbs, the soft skin of persistent shaving cooling my hands. My eyes bore into his, taking in the darkness that I rarely saw in his eyes, the comforting and inviting darkness that I craved every time my dreams woke me.**

**I brushed my lips against his, merely making my presence known. Sherlock sighed pleasantly, aware of my progress already. His hands slid onto my back and guided me next to him, one staying around my shoulder pulling me close to him.**

**Heavy rain cleansed the streets of London of their demons whilst Sherlock's touch cleansed me of my own.**


	25. Dream Diary

_I lay awake for several hours after John fell asleep once more. After learning how his body responds to Afghan-related dreams: the tightening of muscles, his stiff right shoulder, sweat pooling around his hairline, Pashtun moans that I struggled to hear laced the early morning, I always wanted to help. To drag him back to the here and now. Not hearing Pashtun in the early morning was a relief until his dreams reappeared on a different playing field: Moriarty’s territory. John never spoke about those, he never spoke about his Afghan dreams, but the basic content could always be told by his physical and verbal reactions to the dream. Unlike the bomb dreams that sporadically damaged my doctor after our first meeting with Moriarty, these never contained myself. His lips never pouted like they did when he said my name. They clenched tight into each other, digging into his teeth as he said his sister’s name over and over. He spilt his own blood over dreams of losing hers._

 

_His return to war was almost comforting, in the same way I found St Bartholomew’s morgue comforting. Order, no matter how absurd it seemed to others, could be found. Moriarty was, for now, no longer a threat to the marvellous mind of the man lying next to me. My presence in Afghanistan places me higher in John’s mind than before Amy’s intrusion into my domestic bliss. There had never been a blurring of the two worlds: John never spoke about Afghanistan or the army, no one from Afghanistan had ever visited the old Captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers. That world was his past, only present in his dreams: 221B, myself and the murders of London were his present and future. But a Sherlock Holmes dying in Afghanistan in the mind of John Hamish Watson, left entirely to my deductions, could only mean one thing. John deemed me important in his life. The only other person he dreamt about dying had been Amy, his own flesh and blood. A few months ago this would have seemed ridiculous._

_“W_ _hen you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” I thought to myself and smiled. Leaning against John, I felt his steady breath against my wrist and concluded his nightmares had removed themselves for the rest of the evening. The sweat had dried on his forehead, his hairline becoming greasy with the night. My eyes flicked up and onto the red lines of the alarm clock. Seven thirty four am. I pulled away from John, replacing my body with duvet to keep him warm, stepping slowly and weightlessly across the floorboards. The walk to the bathroom was longer from my room, a curse in my current state. I slipped from one doorframe to the other, the cooler air in the hallway making the hairs on my legs and lower back stand on end. The shower creaked on, the light still blinking softly as I began to awaken the flat for my own use. As steam began to leak out of the shower head I stepped into the tub, showering quickly. Reaching for my pear shampoo, John’s favourite, I realised we would have to make some room for Amy’s belongings. John had moved most of his belongings to my room the day before, leaving only a few less essential items in the room Amy would use from this afternoon onwards._

_A dark towel wrapped around my waist, I wiped at the shaving mirror, thoroughly inspecting my jawline for stubble. The slight presence of facial hair automatically saw my right hand snatch up the razor. I paused, tilting my head in the light in a wide variety of angles._

_“Maybe I should leave it,” I thought, “see if John likes it.”_

_The thought of experimenting with the Sherlock that John had already placed firmly in his priorities was exciting, a definite replacement for the liver John had thrown out of the bread bin on Wednesday. My best dressing gown sat on the back of the door, waiting for me. Dropping the towel into the laundry bin, I slipped the soft blue satin around my still damp body and slipped downstairs._

_The oven clock told me it was ten past eight: John would be up soon. Opening the fridge, the full shelves shaking slightly with heavy weight, I grimaced at its now useless state in my kitchen. The fridge had never been this full, not since the head last year. Memories of John’s distaste made me smirk. That was the John I’d grown to love, to depend on._

_Cracking eggs into a pan, I thought about the day before with John. It had started with an early trip to the hospital, one taken with more acceptance than before. Knowledge that she would be out and safely in his sight had put a skip into John’s step, something that had not gone unnoticed on our walk. I merely stood behind John, offering a casual raise of my eyebrows whenever a glance headed my way. Amy smiled at me as I made my presence known, smirking back at her._

_“Maybe I could be more welcoming this afternoon.” I thought, smiling down into the pan. John would certainly be pleased with me. The sound of feet padding over to the bathroom, heavy and determined, raised my smile to a grin. His usual showers were seven minutes, twelve if he shaved; I turned the pan down to slow the processes. My mind wandered back to after the hospital._

_“Come on Lock.” John had turned into the supermarket without a second thought for me._

_“We don’t need anything.” I walked into the foreign territory slowly. This was John’s and Mrs Hudson’s domain, not mine._

_“Yes, we do.” The basket in his hand already had various vegetables and a bumper pack of apples in it. I groaned._

_“John.”_

_“Amy’s coming home, so I’m putting some food that doesn’t come from a takeaway in the flat.” John filled the basket quickly, his choices ranging from basic eggs, potatoes and salad, to asian cabbages, jars of asian starter pastes and fresh noodles. As he stood at the counter bagging up the shop he turned suddenly to me, “Lock, can you get some milk?”_

_“If I must.” I twisted on my heel and grabbed two pints of semi-skimmed milk, the condensation waking me up to John’s excitement. His hands had started shaking once Amy was safe and stable, his body aching for the drug he had unconsciously fed it for so many years. Now, it was as steady as my mind with a nicotine patch. Holmes and Watson, gliding through the streets of London, feeding off the fear, the potential danger around every dark corner, the spilt blood drying into the cracked and scarred pavements. Maybe we weren’t so different._

**“Pack of twenty Mayfair as well please.” I watched Sherlock turn into the aisle and spoke quickly, stowing the cigarettes into the inner pocket I didn’t keep my phone or wallet in. The feel of them against me was alien, an unknown carrier on my person. Well, he has been good, I thought.**


	26. Hallucinations

My time at St Barts had ingrained the faces of some of the Metropolitan's finest into my mind. DS Sally Donovan had been stand offish, awkwardly ignoring me and fixating on the task ahead of her when Lestrade had sent her over, dragging away Greg or Andrew from my bedside. Inspector Lestrade had warmed to my now-extended presence in his relationship with John and Mr Holmes, and minor details of my life had brought him closer. Greg had studied at Bristol too, and the city's ability to hold onto past nightlife was forging a comfortable friendship between us.

But it was Andrew that kept me company more than others. After John had left to tame 221B into a safe environment for a long term visitor, he had stayed by my side, keeping my mind off everything Moriarty-related. His love of books created much of the discussion, and for when there wasn't anyone to talk to, Andrew had left Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy for me to read. Tomas Alfredson's adaptation was a firm favourite of mine ever since it's release: me and Harry had been to see it when it was released. Andrew sat next to me, keeping my mind firmly on Le Carre's classic rather than on any possibility I wasn't going home that day.

After sleeping during the day before my discharge, nightmares of Moriarty and beyond him had ravaged my mind. A nurse had woken me physically as I tore at the fresh and weak skin across my arms and legs, Andrew forced back into the corner with both fear and the nurse's presence. All of my wounds were now fresh, and tightly bound in dressings. Dr Coyle had decided dressings would have to be used until the very final stages of healing, to minimise scarring after my outburst.

Despite this, Dr Coyle was sure I could still go home today and he would begin discharging me on his rounds. John had reassurred me he would be there to escort me home, but a time had never been discussed. With Andrew away and an unknown police officer lazily sitting outside my room, impatiently waiting for my discharge, John's casual attitude filled me with fear. My heart rate slowly increased, shooting up when booming laughter reverberated through the door. The deep male voice crashed through my recovery, dragging me back mentally through my ordeal. I could feel Jim's hands sliding up my hospital gown, luring me back to him.

The door slammed open, although the sound was dulled by my mind. My vision blurred, figures turning into Seb and Jim before my very eyes. The hospital bed was now the hard stone floor he had left me on for days, the IV merely the rope tying my hands to disable me.

**I stood in the doorway, my laughter falling short of its potential as I saw my sister's body writhe with fear. Her eyes pierced through me, and as I approached I noticed a glaze over them, sweat appearing across her face. Sherlock slowly closed the door and leant against it, ignoring the nurse that attempted to enter.**

**“Amy? Amy, it's me, it's John. Amy?” I sat next to her, paralysed as I watch her heartrate race and her eyes skid around the room, “Amy, he's gone, he can't hurt you. I've got you. I've got you.”**

**My hand touched hers, forcibly removing her nightmare. As her eyes focused on me, on the truth in front of her, she began to cry, falling forwards and into my arms.**

**“I've got you.” I looked at Sherlock as Amy continued to sob and smiled. Now it was just a question of waiting. Sherlock slipped away from the door and pulled it open slowly.**

**“Miss Watson is not available for visitors, including hospital staff. Good morning.” The door jerked shut, a smile twitching onto his face.**

**“Thank you, Lock.” I looked back down at this vulnerable little girl, gripping onto my shirt and pouring salty tears down my shoulder.**

**“Do you promise?” Amy looked up, slowly lifting her head.**

**“Of course I do. I've got you now, and I won't let you go.” I rubbed Amy's back and felt Sherlock's hand grip my shoulder tenderly.**


	27. Mrs Hudson's Victoria Sponge

John kicked the door ajar and guided me into his flat, one hand gently brushing against my waist. I had already snapped twice on the way from the hospital: a wheelchair was my easy way out of the building, but getting into the taxi and up the stairs into their half of 221B. Sherlock had smirked at my comments, standing well back and allowing my brother to bear the full, and rightfully his, brunt of my anger and frustration. Once the door was open, however, I felt a rush of cold and hard guilt at my earlier responses. The once littered with papers, mugs and plates floor and tables were now sparklingly clean, the smell of freshly brewed tea and baking forcing out the remnants of hospital disinfectant from my nose. Mrs Hudson stood in the kitchen, frowning at a large and slightly unbalanced Victoria sponge on a glass plate.

“Oh hello dear! Sherlock, I told you to ring me when you left.” She tutted lovingly at her lodger, rushing to John's side, “I'll take that up for you, John. Cake and tea, anyone?”

“Ooh yes please.” I headed towards the comfier chair I knew to be Sherlock's, hoping the detective wouldn't object.

“Let me help you-” John's hand flew to my waist once more.

“I'm fine John.” I whispered. I struggled to lower into the chair, my hands sweating profusely and slipping around my crutches.

“Let me help-”

“I said I'm fine, John!” My diverted attention from my actions towards my brother's caused my left crutch to unsteady itself and slip away from my hand, causing me to fall into the chair. The brief pain took my eyes from his, eyelids closing firmly and both of my hands gripping the chair. Once reopened, I saw Sherlock scowling and whispering furtively into my brother's ear, Mrs Hudson slowly pouring tea. She was probably used to such outbursts by now, with Sherlock and John living above her.

“There you go dears.” She placed a cup of tea, perfectly dark and strong, next to me with a piece of cake. The strawberry jam dripped onto the side of the plate, thick yet light sponge dropping crumbs across the end table, “I'm off to see Mr Chattergee.”

“Send my love for his other two wives-” Sherlock spoke thickly, sponge still in his mouth.

“Sherlock!” She slammed the door.

“Why did you have to do that?” John looked at him, attempting some normality.

“I think she forgets sometimes that he's got two wives.” He swallowed the remnants of sponge in his mouth, chewing on the last mouthful, “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“John, what you must remember is that you cannot change me.”

“Oh I don't need reminding about that!” John began to raise his voice and I rolled my eyes, taking a large bite of Mrs Hudson's cake. I must ask for her recipe, I thought, before turning my full attention back to my sulky brother.

“-she's an adult John, you can't do everything for her-”

“What if I want to?”

“John.” Sherlock noticed my gaze, “She needs to get better on her own time.”

Sherlock looked at me once more, his diverted attention catching my brother's and drawing him to me. John smiled briefly at me.

“I'm sorry Amy.” His fingers drummed across his legs, before he turned and smartly left the room, “I need some air.”

Once he had left, I smiled at Sherlock with more confidence than before.

“Thanks. For John, I mean.” Sherlock responded with a brief, almost nonexistent smirk.

“Well, I'd be lost without my blogger.”


	28. Protection

My nightmares were spread thickly across the first week back in 221B. Moriarty filled them from start to end, terrifying me just like my first visit to 221B. Halfway through the week I awoke with a shout, my breath high pitched with tension and worry. My door flew open, John leaning forwards into my room.

“Amy?” I blinked slowly as he walked over, “I was walking past and heard you shout-”

“It’s fine-”

“Were you having a nightmare?” His hands closed over mine.

“It’s fine-”

“I know it is.” He pulled me close, my body initially stiff with reluctance, “Sherlock has to tell me it is a lot too.”

“How do you mean?” My voice was muffled by his thick and soft jumper.

“Let’s just say that Moriarty can take his toll on me too.” I looked up at my brother, “And Afghanistan.”

“Oh John-”

“No, don’t. It’s fine.”

My body relaxed.

_“Nightmare?” I didn’t look up from the paper as John entered the room._

_“Yep.” I didn’t really need his answer; his walk was the same as it was when he experienced nightmares too, “She’s okay though.”_

_“Good.” I lowered the paper as he sat next to me, our arms resting comfortably next to each other. His hands were wrapped around a big mug of tea, his eyes sleepily looking at it, “You can’t keep getting up whenever she does, John.”_

_“Oh, I was going past-”_

_“Not the last time though.” My hands slid from the paper to his chin, twisting his head once the tea was safely on the side. Mrs Hudson would be proud of my newly developed impatience, “You haven’t had a full night’s sleep since she came home-”_

_“I don’t care about losing a little sleep-”_

_“I can’t have you yawning before the day’s even started, John, what if we get a big case on? Need someone to do the legwork for me.”_

_“Could do your own legwork for a change.” John grumbled._

_“Now now, don’t make yourself redundant. John.” He looked into my eyes, his brown eyes sleepily looking into mine, “Promise you won’t keep getting up?”_

_“Alriiight.” He sighed, his whole body relaxing as I playfully stroked his face._

_“Really John?”_

_“What?” He kept his eyes closed._

_“Was there any need for elongating those vowels?”_

_“Maaaybe.” He looked up at me through his fringe. That needed trimming back, I thought. John grinned broadly up at me, “Sorry Lock.”_

_I sighed. I couldn’t resist that smile, not now._

_“It’s fine John.” The newspaper crinkled as I showed John his apology was truly accepted._


	29. Two Sherlocks

__

_I lay awake, John's alarm clock flashing proudly at me, taunting me. 3:36 am quickly flashed into the past, the minutes slipping by. I was awake through no fault but my own, trying to figure out the latest serial killer to grace Lestrade's office with his victims, but our guest was certainly not helping. I had been awake for twenty minutes before I heard her dry sobs of panic, followed by wet cries of relief._

_“Mmmm...” John groaned his way out of sleep, legs pushing him upright before he would roll out of bed. The past week I had watched John do this repeatedly, but not anymore._

_“John.” My hand grabbed the closest part of him to me, tightening John's chest and crotch and sending my cheeks into an unknown territory of colour. His thigh was taut under my grip, slowly turning towards me, “Not now.”_

_Before he could respond I slipped straight out of bed, my dressing gown flamboyantly billowing out behind me before I snatched it around my waist, tying it quickly. The steps to the kitchen were a few degrees warmer than usual: I wasn't the only one up in the flat. My mind failed me momentarily, jumping straight to Moriarty. Making a mental note not to tell John, I switched the kitchen under cupboard lights on, dappling the flat in soft light. The kettle boiled slowly, time slowly dragging its heels in the darkened morning. Amy's feet were pulled up onto John's arm chair, her head resting against its side as she breathed in that familiar smell we both associated with him. As I busied myself with tea bags, sugar and milk, I began to think about the connection we both shared, but were yet to confront. I placed the mug next to her and sat down._

_“You know, how John treats you isn't entirely wrapping you in cotton wool.” She looked up, surprised at my attempt to converse._

_“How do you mean?”_

_“If he could have his way, he'd watch you all day and all night. But living here with me has taken away that right. Well, not completely.”_

_“He told me you could be pretty demanding.”_

_“This isn't about me!” I hissed, before stopping myself. This really wasn't about me, “Well. I guess sometimes I could be seen that way, but that's not the point. Living here, working with me has put another side to John. He can go days devoted entirely to my needs, my demands and my way of life, risking his own so I can get my own little thrill.”_

_I cleared my throat._

_“So I owe John. But, more importantly, we don't owe Moriarty.”_

_“I don't-”  
“Oh you really are your brother's sister. He wouldn't understand either.” I stood up, noticing John was walking down the stairs, “You need to get better so Moriarty doesn't win.”_

_“What are you two up to?” John sleepily leant against the doorway._

_“Nothing. I was just telling Amy some observations I'd made.” I swept up, aware that no one would be going back to bed any time soon, “John, text Lestrade. Tell him to search the window cleaner's van. If his ladder is missing any paint on the second highest prong, it was him.”_

_“Right...”_

_“Tea?” I began to make his tea before he could answer, slowly spooning sugar into his favourite mug._

_“Yeah, go on then- seriously Lock, what are you up to?” I raised my eyebrows at him, surprised at his ease with my nickname in front of his sister._

_“Nothing, except making tea-”_

_“The last time you made me tea, you thought you were drugging me!”_

_“What?” Amy spluttered, dribbling tea down her chin._

_“I told you, it was an experiment!”_

_“Sherlock.” John's enunciation of the first syllable irritated me, sending water sloshing over the side of the mug, “Tell me.”_

_“Sherlock was giving me a pep talk, okay?” Amy spoke quickly, her voice louder than I had heard it since her return._

_“A pep talk? Sherlock, for god's-”_

_“I'll explain myself!” I raised my voice, throwing the spoon into the sink. It rattled around, bouncing out and onto the floor. I groaned and slammed my hand onto the side, “I want to help.”_

_“With what?”_

_“With all of this. I am sick, sick of hearing you,” My hand flung out, finger jabbing accusatorily at Amy, “cry in the middle of the night, all your gaspin' for air and wheezes of panic. I am also sick of you-”_

_“Sherlock-”_

_“No, John, this is about you.” My head turned towards him as I headed towards my chair, hands dropping to my side, “I am more sick of you running to her, no matter what. Of getting dropped, because Amy can't sleep. I am also sick of you letting him win so easily!”_

_“Sherlock you cannot be seriou- wait, what?”_

_“Moriarty!” I bellowed, my voice silencing all of 221B. A bus drove past, it's second decker illuminating just below the window. John's eyes skimmed across my face before he sighed, heading towards my chair, “When did the man I know so very well start forgetting about him, hey?”_

_John dropped to his knees, hands next to mine._

_“This isn't the last of him, not by a long shot, John.” I grazed my fingers across his wrist and the side of his palm._

_“I know. I know, I know, I'm sorry Lock. I really am. But you can't push things with Amy, you can't.”_

_“But you can-”_

_“I can't-”_

_“Yes, you, can.” I spoke through gritted teeth, staring straight into John's eyes. For a moment the room fell away from us, leaving just John and I staring at each other, so close physically but further away than the day we met. My stubborn mind was pushing him away, his safe and comforting eyes slowly fading from view. I scrabbled to hold onto my John, the ever present blogger and his habits that I had grown to admire over our time._

_“Lock?” John's voice snapped me back to the present John. I looked over him thoroughly, noticing his lips were locked in tightly to his teeth. Pain. The word flashed panic through my brain and I searched his body for its source, searching within myself to make him better. Looking down, I grimaced at my total involvement: my once tender stroking had transformed into a tight grip, capturing John's wrist at his pressure points. At once I released him, keeping my head down ashamed of my selfish projection. My hands wrapped around each other, forcing the pain into my own body rather than John's, “Thanks...”_

_His hands fell away from me and he stood up. I was losing John._

_“Ahem.” Amy coughed, putting her mug down, “I thought you'd forgotten I was here.”_

_“I'm, I'm sorry.” I stumbled over my words and slipped out of my chair, leaving my cup nearly full and still warm, “I'm, I'm, I'm...”_

_I left John and Amy behind me and lay on my back, staring up at my ceiling. Stamford would be getting a stern word when I next saw him at Barthes, it was all his fault after all. I was perfectly happy before John came along, before I had company that wasn't Mrs Hudson._

_“Sherlock?” John knocked tentatively at my door, “Can I come in, or-”_

_“I'd rather be alone.” I spoke quickly, my mouth going into auto-pilot mode. John's footsteps took him back into the living room and I rolled over, watching the sun rise through the gaps in the curtain. None of this be happening if Mike Stamford hadn't introduced me to John Hamish Watson. His relatives wouldn't be sleeping in our spare room, I wouldn't have had to drop cases when Moriarty kidnapped them, that liver would still be in the bread bin, and I could still smoke without John whispering sweet nothings about lung cancer and emphysema to me. Although it was nice that Mrs Hudson had finally got the smell out of my coat. And John did sacrifice himself for me when it came to Moriarty and that pool._

_But he never actually managed it, the old and introverted part of my mind snapped back at my mental consideration of John Watson. My mind palace dragged back his face when the snipers changed their sights to me. Disappointment, self hate, concern._

_Not like it was my first time, I thought. Only the day after I had met him did he trust me across rooftops and down dark alleys, chasing our very first serial killer. And the day after he saved your life, my palace reminded me._

_“Yes I know, I know, I'm being ridiculous.” I spoke out loud to myself, exhaling into my hands and rolling onto my back. The silence was unnerving. I had grown accustomed to John's breathing, a fraction more laboured when he lay on his right side as his scar tissue stretched under his weight. I had become fond of his smell, a hint of vanilla from Mrs Hudson's washing powder and pears from his shower gel, the one I always knocked into the bath as I got my own out. And unsurprisingly of him, of comfort and dependancy, of his cautious attitude to everyone that walked through our door, and not forgetting a touch of devotion to everyone close to his heart._

_The introvert in me turned off my sentiment, pushing me into an ultimatum. Before John my life had a distinct lack of sentiment, I rocked from the thrill of heroin to a case, shooting up over London's latest serial killer. I could do what I want, when I want, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson were much easier to shake off my case than John ever was. It would have to be one decision, between the old independent life I had before John without him, or my new life and everyone in it. I scolded myself for ever thinking the decision had anything to do with anyone or anything but John. All I really had to do was decide if John was someone I wanted in my life. And I don't think I could live without him._


	30. His Decision

**I had been sat slumped against our bedroom door for over half an hour. Amy had fallen asleep in my chair, her mug safely in the kitchen and a blanket tucked up around her shoulders. Sherlock had requested I leave him alone, and alone he shall be. But I was certain to prove to myself at least, if not Sherlock too, that I would never stray far. Not unless he truly wanted me to.**

**“John?” His voice croaked through the door, it's vulnerability clear even to my untrained ear. My body was stiff with sleep, so my ability to burst through the door in nanoseconds was damaged somewhat. Nevertheless, I leant against the door frame and looked at the man I'd grown to bear, admire and even love, “I'm so sorry.”**

**“Lock?” I sat on the bed next to him, keeping my hands away from him. Not now, I wasn't showing him the satisfaction of an emotional attachment until he'd made his case clear.**

**“I want you to know how much I care-”**

**“I know how- what, why?”**

**“I want you to know how much I care about you, John.” He sat up, tucking his legs underneath him, “No matter what happens, I will always care about you.”**

**“I don't understand, Lock.”**

**“I've brought nothing useful to your life, John. I've put you and Amy in danger, maybe it's better I go it alone.”  
“You can't-”**

**“I did before and I can now!” Sherlock raised his voice slightly, “I think you should leave.”**

**“No, no, no,” I leapt back off the bed, my mind a racing blur, “No, you just don't get it, do you? If you cared, Sherlock, you'd go out there and apologise to Amy-”**

**“You know what?” He turned around, kneeling up on the bed. I'd disturbed his calmed and decisive mind, “Sentiment weakens the mind. And I need mine, it is my entire life's purpose. With sentiment, it rots, and so do I. So if I want to lose all of my purpose then yeah, I'll go and apologise to your sister-”**

**“Sherlock!” I bellowed, “Will you have some respect for someone other than yourself?”**

**“Has the last year counted for nothing, John? Nothing, apparently! I care about you John-”**

**“Then prove it to me!” My head pointed towards the ceiling with frustration. We were going around in circles.**

**“What?” He slowly lifted his head.**

**“Prove to me that you care.” I moved forward slightly, still standing but leaning against our mattress.**

**“Moriarty knew about us, about how close we were getting. And he used it against us, saw that I was keeping you closer than ever to my side, and hurt you. He's taken you out of action in a way that I never thought he could-”**

**“I'm sorry, you were wrong about something?” The words spluttered out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I winced visibly as he looked straight at me.**

**“Anyway,” He looked away, “so I've been thinking, and this just can't work-”**

**“Ooh Sherlock Holmes had a thought!” I continued my sarcastic tone, juddering away from it as I heard the last half of his sentence, “Wait, what can't work Lock?”**

**“Us.”**

**“I don't-”**

**“Things either have to go back to how they were, or we go our separate ways.”**

**The sentence hit me hard in the stomach, knocking the anger out of me. Sherlock was ripping us apart when I needed him most.**

**“Sherlock, no, please...” I trailed off, unable to form a full sentence. This couldn't be happening, not now. Tears began to brim in my eyes, my hands reaching out for him.**

**“Oh, John, I am sorry.” Tears blurred my vision, and the figure in front of me took my hands, wiping the tears rolling down my cheeks away with both of our hands, “But this is for the best, it really is.”**

**“It really isn't,” I choked on the words, returning myself to silence.**

**“It is, John. This way, I can keep you safe, and you can help Amy get better.”**

**“Don't make me leave-”**

**“You don't have to leave, I'm sure Mrs Hudson has an airbed, or there's always the sofa, just while Amy's still here-”**

**“No, I don't want to leave this room.” The tears had cleared my vision, and I knelt on the bed next to Sherlock. We knelt in silence, eyes flickering over each other's bodies but refusing to retain any kind of eye contanct.**

**“I'm sorry John.” He dropped my hands and stood up, folding his arms, “Maybe you should leave now.”**

**I coughed, tucking my hands into my dressing gown. Heading towards the door, my body filled momentarily with rage, burning inside of my heart as it fell apart.**

**“You really need to learn about timing, Sherlock. If anyone else manages to get to your fucking heart, they'd better have a chisel and a blanket. God knows it's taken me a long time to hack my way in, and it's damn cold out here.”**

**“John-”**

**“Fuck you, Sherlock. You know, I could overlook the potential death of myself and my sister because I'd found you, because you could always be there to catch me no matter what, but this, this shits on my sacrifices.” I slammed the door as I left, hot tears streaming down my face. The thought of sleeping in an empty bed was more unappealling than re-meeting Moriarty with no gun in my back pocket. With the sun rising and London waking up, oblivious to the end of another chapter of my life, I headed out the front door of 221B.**


	31. Getting to the Truth

“John, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson burst through the door, calling out for her tenants. I turned my neck towards her, smiling slightly, “Oh, hello dear, did I wake you?”

“Ah no, I'm a very light sleeper.”

“Where's your brother, and Sherlock?”

“John went out a few hours ago-”

“Hours ago?” Her voice was riddled with concern, “Lover's tiff was it?”  
“Mmmhmm.” I yawned through my answer.

“Well, past experience tells me to leave Sherlock alone. Tell John to pop down when he's back will you?”

“Yeah, was it about the rent or something?” Mrs Hudson's face fell at my comment, “You know, to give him some idea about it...”

“Well to be honest I wanted to know what's happened, but I can discuss redecorating with him.” Her eyes cast over the wall, “God knows those boys have done enough damage to my walls to last a lifetime.”

She went upstairs for a moment, and quickly came back down the steps.

“This is my flat young man, I shall go where I please-”

“I do not appreciate being spied on by my landlady. Now if you wish to speak to me, I'd appreciate you give me time to get dressed before intruding into my bedroom.”

“There's no need for that tone-” Mrs Hudson cut herself off as she realised Sherlock ushering her towards the door, “I think I'll leave.”

“Best idea you've had all day!” He slammed the door after her, and headed back up the steps. As he reached the last step, he spinned around, “I take it you told Mrs Hudson about me and John?”  
“I'm surprised she didn't know already, from the volume you were both at earlier.” I snapped, tired with his childish response to social interactivity.

“Is he back?” He turned slowly, pretending to ignore my previous comments.

“Who, John? No. And he left his phone, so god knows where he's gone.” I squeezed the blanket in my fists, trying to stay calm.

“Take deep breaths.”

“What?”  
“You need to calm down.” Sherlock jumped off the step and walked towards me, “Deep breaths, it's what John always does.”

I took several deep breaths, the sound of my exhalation bouncing around the silent flat. Both of us kept our eyes to our feet.

“Better?” He smiled slightly as he spoke.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I returned the gesture, “Do you always remember what John does?”

“He's my flatmate, I remember patterns and habits easily-”

“Don't give me that line.”

“What line?”  
“There's no way you're just flatmates.”

“We are!” Clearly I was hitting a nerve, so I pushed further with my questioning.

“I was there last night, when you were both shouting at each other. And I was there before that, when you were fondling each other's hands and staring into each other's eyes-”

“It's not like that!” He coughed, adjusting his volume, “Do you really want to know?”

“Uh, yeah, he is my brother.” Sherlock sighed and sat on his chair.

“You are right. Well, were. After everything that's happened lately with Moriarty, I decided that I'm putting too much of John's life at risk, as well as putting a strain on those elements afterwards.”

“Is this because you thought John was mollycoddling me?”  
“I don't want to make him choose, because he will choose you. This way I'm prepared, Moriarty doesn't end things on his terms, we end them on mine-”

“But not John's!”

“Better just mine than Moriarty's though.” He smirked.

“I don't want anything that happens to me to come in between you and John. I will get better in my own time, John won't speed that up or slow it down.”

“Right...”

“So you've really got to prove to John that you were wrong, or you'll lose him for good.”

“Okay...”

“If he does come back, that is.” I looked up at Sherlock Holmes for the first time in our conversation, and all I saw were the tears brimming in his eyes.


	32. Holiday

_It's been three days since John left. I don't know where he is, even Lestrade hasn't seen him. Work has been slow since I let Lestrade know myself about the serial killer I was helping him with, so John's absence is really being felt. Every morning I wake up and feel for him before opening my eyes. Every morning is a disappointment. I scold myself for being so weak, and get up. Amy and I tend to sit in silence most of the day, when she is up. She sleeps late and goes to bed early, so sleep problems are evident. Mycroft keeps texting me, but I daren't reply. If he shows up, and sees John has gone in a sulk, I'll never hear the end of it. Amy's words still linger in my mind, and I fear she's already right._

**Stamford's sofa isn't the most comfortable place to sleep, but I've slept in worse places. Every evening when he returns from St Barthes he asks if I've got in touch with Sherlock yet, but every evening I deny him the pleasure of soon having his flat to himself once more. Maybe I should go back, Amy would at least appreciate my presence. Maybe it'll diffuse some of the tension between her and Sherlock. I guess I should go, even to sort things out with Sherlock.**

**The door to 221B has never been so intimidating. This building has brought me so much, and is now the backdrop to the second biggest fight in my life. Fighting for my sister and to keep Sherlock in my life was never going to beat the fight for my life in Afghanistan. I could barely get through the front door before Mrs Hudson was in the hallway, beaming at me.**

**“Oh John, you've come back!” She rushed towards me for a hug, “I was worried!”**

**“Ah, there's no need to be, Mrs Hudson.” I stepped away and edged towards the stairs, “I think I should go, straighten things up with Sherlock and Amy.”**

**“Yes, yes of course. Let me know how it goes?”  
“Of course Mrs Hudson.” My landlady would never fail to be warming, no matter what state we left the flat in sometimes. I looked up the stairs, the challenge bigger than with my limp. Up there lay my fate, good or bad.**

Mrs Hudson's voice drifted upstairs and I smiled to myself. Sherlock was upstairs and hadn't heard her comments to my brother, so I took the opportunity with both hands. My burns were getting better, the nurse had told me when she came to change my dressings. Another week and I could leave them in the fresh air, she reckoned. Although she did know a lot about burns and healing time for a standard NHS nurse, I thought at the time. Snatching up my crutches, I made my way to the door, reaching for it as it opened. John looked straight at me and smiled, his mouth slightly open.

“John.” I breathed his name, grinning from ear to ear.

“Amy.” He pulled me close, still aware of my crutches, “I'm sorry.”

“It's not me you should apologise to.” I pulled away, turning him slightly into the room. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, his phone loosely dangling from his hand.

“John.” He rushed forward, stopping awkwardly behind me.

“Sherlock.” The silence between all three of us was thick and heavy, creating a stagnant air.

“Tea, John?” I made off towards the kitchen.

“I'll do that.” He gently grabbed my arm, looking at me to indicate I shouldn't argue.

“I think I'll go upstairs...” I trailed off, desperately thinking of a lie, “...I think there's a book I could read...”

I kept John's bedroom door open, hoping to hear most of the conversation. Unfortunately Sherlock's brain hadn't rotted like he had previously thought: he closed the door into the stairs after me.

**“I think we need to talk, not drink tea.” Sherlock turned around after closing the door, sitting in his chair.**

**“Obviously.” I stayed in the kitchen, “I'm sorry I walked out like that.”**

**“Thank you. Amy was worried sick, and so was Mrs Hudson.”**

**“Glad someone was.”**

**“I wasn't, I already know you can take care of yourself in most situations. So, Stamford's?”**

**“How did you know then?” I couldn't help but smile as he got it right.**

**“No phone, so you didn't go to Harry's. You wouldn't go to Sarah's, not without her thinking you're interested in her again. And Lestrade would have told me if you turned up at his, so the only other answer is-”**

**“Yes, Stamford. He was surprised you didn't ask him to return me to Baker Street actually, has there been no work on?”  
“Nope. Feels like even the criminals are punishing me.”**

**“Good.” He raised his eyebrows, “Then it might hurt as much as it hurts me.”**

**“John-”**

**“Look, I haven't come back to beg, if that's what you were hoping for. I've just come back. I texted Lestrade earlier to let him know I was back in Baker Street, and he's got a case in mind for you.”**

**“Well, did you want to go now?”  
“Consider this my holiday, Sherlock.”**

**“What?”**

**“I'm here to make sure Amy's better. Her future has much more potential of being bright than mine does, especially these days.” I moved towards the stairs, “Now, if you'll excuse me.”**

**Sherlock stared at me as I walked up to Amy's room.**

_“What do you mean, John's on holiday? You never let him out of your sight, let alone on holiday!” Lestrade laughed at his own joke._

_“Like I said. It'll just be me for a while.” I bent down, kneeling over the corpse in front of me, “No obvious signs of a struggle. Or of death for that matter-”_

_“Except for those speckles-” Anderson butted in, snapping his gloves in my ear._

_“Yes thank you Anderson.” I snapped at him, “Send the body down to St Barthes-”_

_“I can't do that-”  
“Yes you can, send it to Molly Hooper. She'll do you a thorough post mortem.”_

_“No one at St Barthes is vetted by the Met-”_

_“She is vetted by me, Lestrade! Now stop winding me in your red tape and go and do something useful.”_

_“Like what?” He looked at me expectantly. It had been a while since John hadn't been here to diffuse the tension at times like these._

_“Go and get John out of 221B for a while.”_

_“Christ, trouble in paradise is there?” He stepped out of his blue suit, shaking his coat back on._

_“You could say that.” My eyes flicked across my mind to check there wasn't anything else that needed to be said, “Oh and Anderson? Tell your wife you're having an affair before I do, your attempts to cover it up are getting rather tedious.”_

_I'd forgotten how much I needed John when it came to crime scenes. Anderson was a nightmare to work with, as usual, and Sally Donovan would never hesitate to be a burden to everyone else at the scene. With any luck Lestrade would take John out for a drink, and I would be able to work in the living room for a while. Since his return I had stayed mostly in my room, trying to avoid his glances that stayed with me all day if I ventured downstairs._

**“So why the impromptu visit?” I took a big mouthful of my pint before questioning Lestrade's presence. He had turned up about fifteen minutes ago, and after a thorough questioning of Amy if she'd be alright without me, his polite comments about her health and another questioning, we had ended up in a pub just around the corner.**

**“Well...” He trailed off, unsure how to answer. I grinned.**

**“Sherlock?”**

**“Yeah.”**

**“Knew it. Forgot how selfish he can be.” I smiled at Greg, “No bother though, it's been a while.”**

**“Yeah. What's up with you two? He said you're taking a holiday, which seems a bit odd, especially with Anderson on the case...” Greg trailed off, raising his eyebrows for an answer.**

**“After Amy's run in with Moriarty, Sherlock decided our relationship needs to change.” Greg's eyebrows raised further, his pint being put down immediately: our relationship was news to him full stop.**

**“So what, you're no longer working together?”**

**“Not exactly-”**  
“No longer friends?”  
“Well-”  
“Well it's not like your relationship was anything else...” Greg trailed off, waiting for my answer. I continued to drink, my eyes flicking over his before he realised, “Hang on a tic! You, and Sherlock Holmes? I thought he didn't have any kind of personal feeling- wait, I thought you were straight?”

**“Well-”**

**“Not that it's a problem if you're not, of course!” Greg sighed and looked at his pint for a moment before looking back at me, “Shall I start again?”**

**“I know what you mean. To answer all your questions, yes, me and Sherlock Holmes were. So did I, but hey, I guess someone had to break through that icy barrier. As for me...well, I don't know. Sherlock's the only guy I've felt like this over.”**

**“So what's actually happened then?”**

**“Sherlock reckons Amy was only targeted because me and Sherlock are always together, so it's harder to target just him or just me. Apparently Moriarty would drive me away by hurting my family, and seeing how my involvement with Sherlock Holmes was putting others at risk, and that would make our relationship change-”**

**“How did Moriarty know about you two then?”**

**“I don't know, but I'd imagine he knew before either of us two though.”**

**“I'm sorry mate.” Greg clapped me on the back, draining his pint, “Another?”**

**“I'll get these-”  
“No you won't, you're drowning your sorrows.” He returned quickly with another two pints, sipping the head off of his, “So if I heard you right, Sherlock telling you it's over just sticks to Moriarty's plan?”**

**I drank more of my pint and started my second, thinking in silence over his statement. I'd never considered it that way, that Sherlock's decision was in fact letting Moriarty win.**

**“I guess so, yeah. Maybe he'd see sense then.” Greg's phone went off and he glanced briefly at it.**

**“John, I've gotta go. About Sherlock, try and point out that massive flaw in his plan, and see if he takes you back. God knows he's a nightmare at the moment, you know Anderson's refusing to work with him anymore?”  
“And it took him this long to decide that?” Greg laughed, draining his pint afterwards, “Yeah you head off mate, I'll let you know if I need to drown my sorrows more or if I'm back on crime scene duties.”**

**I sat for a while longer, drinking my pint slowly.**


	33. Pub?

_**Drinking isn't going to solve the problem of Sherlock Holmes. M.** _

**“Believe me, I've tried.” The dulcet tones of Mycroft Holmes' voice buzzed in my ear as I turned around to greet the sender.**

**“Hello Mycroft.” I kicked the seat out for him and drank my pint as he slowly took off his raincoat, drooping it over the back and hooking his umbrella onto the chair. He slid his briefcase onto the table and placed two glasses between us, slowly putting down a bottle of whiskey, “Long day was it?”**

**“Rather.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it, sliding it over to me, “Take a look.”**

**I glanced briefly before averting my eyes. Sherlock's name at the top told me enough.**

**“I'd rather not-”**

**“See, that's what my first response was. I'd rather not get involved in your dramatic moments with my little brother, but here I am.” Mycroft spoke calmly, the plosives doing all the work for him as he poured himself a generous measure of whiskey, “You know I had a meeting with the Russian ambassador today?”**

**“Of course not-”  
“But Sherlock did, and he kept pestering me.” He turned towards me and held a glass half full out to me, “So what's going on, John?”**

**“You mean he hasn't told you?”**

**“Don't be stupid John, of course he hasn't. He resents my very presence most of the time, do you honestly think he'd tell me about this?”**

**“Sherlock's logic just doesn't extend to relationships, that's all.” I looked at Mycroft and saw his eyebrows were raised expectantly. I drained my glass and began to explain.**

_He's at The Sow's Head, give him an hour on his own and pop down if he hasn't come back to you._

_I smiled at Lestrade's message. At least someone was trying, even if John and I weren't. His quick delivery of John's current whereabouts suggested he had grown tired of me causing problems at crime scenes with his colleagues. John would be pleased with my connection, I thought, as I put my coat on and adjusted my scarf._

_“Amy, I'm just going out.” John may have called me selfish for my actions, but I was sure to prove him wrong. Ever since he had left I had never left Amy alone without telling her I was leaving. I moved fluidly down the stairs,the sound of Mrs Hudson's television set seeping through her door and following me out onto the street. The walk to The Sow's Head was brief, quicker than I thought it would take me. As a result of this I was lost for words, unable to consider even my opening line. I leant against the wall and looked out across the road, the taxis and buses streaming past blurring into one everlasting vehicle. As I entered the typical aesthetic of a chain pub I saw my brother's umbrella hanging on the back of John's chair and my heart leapt into my mouth. An audience. A couple jostled me as they left, no apology issuing from them. My frown slowly melted away as I approached the bar, close enough to John and Mycroft to hear the sound of his voice but not quite his words. I supped my whiskey and slowly moved closer, keeping my back to John to retain my anonymity._

_“I was talking to Greg just now actually-”_

_“Lestrade?”_

_“Yeah-”_

_“Ah yes, of course, I saw him walking down the road as I entered-”_

_“Yeah. Anyway. I was talking to Greg and he said something about it letting Moriarty win, if we stop working together. Does that make sense to you? Because if it doesn't make sense to you, god knows it won't make sense to Sherlock.” I noticed John's voice fumbled over my name._

_“It does, it does make sense. I'm surprised Sherlock's even considered it, he's not exactly one to do what's he's is he?” I bit my tongue over Mycroft's response._

_“No, not really. I don't know how I can prove this to him, how I can make him change his mind.”_

_“Come back to me John, let's start over.” I begged him silently, turning slightly to face him._

_“Why don't you ask him?”_

_“I don't want to go back right now. I might go to Stamford's tonight again-”_

_“You don't need to go back. He's standing behind me.” John's eyes shot up and I slowly turned back, closing my eyes with desperation. Maybe if I can't see him he can't see me. I heard the rustle of my brother's coat and umbrella, “I'll leave you both to it. Evening brother.”_

_A glass was placed next to mine._

_“Sherlock. Can we talk?”_

_I looked at John._

_“About what?”  
“Don't you see Moriarty wants you to be alone? Wants you to throw away everything for him and his plans?”_

_“John-” I murmured._

_“Come on. You said to Amy about letting him win, but what about you letting him win?”_

_I turned to face him, tears forming in his eyes. John Watson's war-torn hands sat clasping his glass. I pulled at his fingers, one by one, pulling them off the glass. We were both staring at his hand now laying palm up on the bar, my hand hovering above it. Just like before. We could take the plunge, or we could forget it._

_“Well, I would be lost without my blogger.”_

_His eyes dropped their tears, his hand snatching mine and dragging it down to his. The whiskey on the bar was forgotten, the call of 221B too strong._


End file.
